


Shifted

by hiccupfound



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Assassination, Blood, Enemies to Lovers, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Praise Kink, Smut, War AU, Werewolf, werewolf!hermione
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:13:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 49,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26590447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiccupfound/pseuds/hiccupfound
Summary: Three years after the Battle of Hogwarts, Voldemort has gone deep into hiding behind the protection of the remaining Death Eaters. The few surviving Order Members are given one Death Eater to assassinate to draw Voldemort out for the Final Battle. Ginny is given Bellatrix Lestrange, Harry takes Antonin Dolohov.Hermione has Draco Malfoy.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 137
Kudos: 152





	1. Cracked

**Author's Note:**

> Please mind the tags before every chapter. This fic will be vulgar with its depictions of violence and injuries. It is not for the faint of heart. 
> 
> Otherwise, enjoy! I've always wanted to write a true enemies to lovers story so I'm excited!

“Are we all ready?” 

Hermione gripped her wand lightly in her hand, popping her gum loudly. Moody glared, and Harry conjured a waste bin for her to spit it out in.

“Bubble gum doesn’t mix with quick spell casting.” He shook the bin impatiently, when she simply stood, staring. “We’ve got to go, stop playing games.”

Without moving her eyes from Harry’s annoyed glance, she spit the wad into the bin. 

Ron appeared at her side, Ginny directly in front of her.

“We all know what to do,” Harry said. “Nothing out of the ordinary. We go in, create an anti-apparition ward and attempt to take our targets out.”

Three years into the war and the majority of Voldemort’s followers had been eliminated. There were a close circle of very powerful, very dark wizards and witches that still remained. The Order, who were equally lacking in an able bodied, strong magic were each assigned a Death Eater to track down and assassinate themselves. 

Horcruxes weren’t the issue anymore. Loyalty was. Harry couldn’t get to Voldemort and end the war when he had so deeply secluded and protected himself. The only plan the Order, in all their desperation, could come up with was to whittle away at the remaining forces. 

Every remaining Death Eater had a card made up. All of their strengths and weaknesses were put onto parchment with the hopes they could be exploited. 

Next, all Order members had cards made. All their strengths and weaknesses were put down (in a  _ bit  _ more detail). Then, they all sat down and matched each Death Eater to an Order member, based on what discovery the cards had made. 

The Order member needed to be strong where the Death Eaters were weak. Each day the Order worked harder to diminish their weaknesses, making themselves less exploitable and vulnerable.

Harry had been matched up with Antonin Dolohov. Ron had Theodore Nott. Ginny battled with Bellatrix Lestrange at least twice a week.

Hermione had Draco Malfoy.

Assignments had been given a year ago. Hermione bet Harry she would have Malfoy dead within three weeks. 

Needless to say, she was pissed to be wrong. 

Malfoy was an excellent dueler.  _ Obviously.  _ He wouldn’t have made it this far in the war without that skill. 

He wasn’t better than Hermione, not conventionally at least. But while the light side still attempted to be somewhat—  _ light _ , despite their willingness to kill, the Dark side seemed to create new hexes and curses everyday. It was impossible to keep up with their newly invented, extremely dangerous spells. Getting hit by them would almost certainly mean death. 

Hermione couldn’t prove it, but she was positive the Death Eaters had also used Dark Magic to enhance their own abilities. They were quicker— both in spell casting and ability to dodge— more clever and intelligent than they’d been in the beginning. Their change hadn’t been subtle or gradual. It was as if overnight the few remaining dark wizards had elevated themselves way above their normal capabilities. The startling realization had caused more than fifty Order member lives.

A lot of people had fled after that. Many more were unable to fight. The Order was barely functioning, a table balancing precariously on its two remaining legs. 

This was the only option left. If it didn’t work, Hermione wanted to die in the effort. There was no life left for her if Voldemort won. 

Hermione looked towards Ginny. “I bet I can last longer in battle against Malfoy than you can with Bellatrix.”

Ginny pursed her lips and then stuck her hand out. “You’re on. She was scariest when her words meant something. You fight her often enough and her threats to  _ crucio  _ you into insanity tend to lose their meaning.”

It wasn’t always the case that there were more than one targets spotted in an area together. The Order often traveled individually now, tracking down their Death Eater and attempting to take them out. 

It was fun to be around other people after months of isolation. Hermione was in high spirits. Not even Malfoy could bring her down. 

Harry grabbed the two women by their wrists. Ron placed his hand on her shoulder. Without another word, Harry spun and they were disappearing from the dilapidated building they’d rendezvoused at.

They landed in the woods outside of another broken down building. Harry had been the one to track the group down, and Hermione had no recollection of this area.

Malfoy was the hardest to pin down out of them all. He was more comfortable than the others in straying from their usual haunts, heading to seedy werewolf bars or fancy muggle gambling halls, and everything else in between. Hermione had followed him all over Europe and she still hadn’t figured out a pattern.

There was no point in delaying, or planning a sneak attack. The moment their feet had hit the dead grass alarm bells began ringing. Their targets— Dolohov, Bellatrix, Nott and Malfoy— were standing outside the building around a fire. Hermione was sure the woods surrounding the area were infested with vampires, hags and werewolves, but it wasn’t her main concern. 

Spells were flying wildly, greens, oranges and blues spewing from wand ends sporadically.

They broke off into pairs quickly. Harry wasn’t able to throw up the apparition ward before Nott was spinning away, but Ron managed to grab onto his cloak before he was gone. Hermione’s stomach twisted and she hoped he hadn’t splinched himself. 

A blur of yellow nicked the end of one of her braids. It sizzled and smoked and Hermione looked up, teeth clenched, to see Malfoy walking towards her, arrogance apparent and smirk pasted on.

“Thought I’d get you started on that much needed haircut.”

Around her, Ginny and Harry had broken up with their targets. They were far enough away that their spells were illuminating the darkness of the woods that surrounded her. She couldn’t hear their voices. 

She fired a hex at him that would drain all of the fluids out of his organs. He blocked it with a flick of his wand, coming up to lean an elbow against a tree.

“Not even a simple  _ hello  _ before you attempt to kill me?” He raised a brow. “And you’re trying to tell me mudbloods are  _ civilised?  _ Worth fighting for?” He fired a nonverbal spell and Hermione twisted to the right to dodge. “My life will be so much easier once you’re dead.”

“We all know how much you like easy, Malfoy.” Hermione reached into a hidden pocket in her cloak and pulled out three throwing knives. “Pansy Parkinson can vouch for that.”

She threw one knife into the air. Malfoy’s eyes watched its ascent. While he was distracted, she took the second knife into her left hand and threw it at him, aiming for his throat. Once he caught on, he would dodge to the left. He  _ always  _ went to the left. 

With the knife in her right hand, she threw to where she knew he’d step to. The point headed straight towards his heart. Hermione could practically feel her body readying itself to cheer in victory.

As Malfoy saw the second knife coming at him, he sidestepped to the left, turning his body so that his back was exposed. 

The third knife lodged itself into the right side of his back, right below the shoulder blade. On the opposite side, his heart stood, beating and uncut.

“Since when do you perform circus acts?” she spat. 

_ Unbelievable.  _ She’d spent nearly a year collecting information on him— his favorite spells and muggle weapons, which side he favored during battle, right down to the ratio of dark magic versus not. Sixty three percent not, if anyone wanted to know. By the far the lowest out of all the Death Eaters. 

In all of her findings, he’d never, not  _ once,  _ turned and exposed his back in this manner.

“Sorry Granger, we can’t all be as predictable as you.” He was still turned, and Hermione knew better than to waste the moment. She raised her wand and cast a disarming spell. 

He turned in time for the spell to miss his chest and hit the arm not holding his wand. It twisted backwards with the force of the spell, but otherwise he stood strong. 

“What’s predictable is your inability to land a decent insult. At least I can count on you making a fool of yourself with your words.”

“You’ve got to take wins where you can get them.” He nodded, lips pouty. “Can’t kill me so you’ve got to worry about whether my insults are better than yours.”

“You’ve got a knife sticking out of your back!” She gestured to his right shoulder. “I’ve not even got a scratch on me.”

He reached around to his back, face pulling into a grimace for a moment before he brandished the knife and threw it into the trunk of the tree she was standing next to. 

“Who’s trying to kill who?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Yes, let’s act like you’re not a minion to the man who wants me and everyone like me dead.”

Malfoy twirled his wand, and Hermione watched as a piece of shrapnel levitated into the air, flying straight towards the center of her chest. She dodged down into a crouch, left leg sliding out straight and hands coming to land on the ground in front of her. She heard the whoosh and subsequent thunk as the piece stuck into the tree behind her. 

She bared her teeth and raised her wand, but Malfoy was already casting a disarming spell. Her wand was snatched out of her hand. Before it could land in Malfoy’s, Hermione dug in her pocket and grabbed her last throwing knife. With Malfoy’s concentration temporarily lifted from her, she threw the knife at his right arm, which held his wand. As soon as she had let go of it, she was running, charging towards him with all her force.

The knife sliced his wrist just moments before her body collided with his. The pain from the knife combined with the collision of her body into his meant Malfoy, previously on the offense with two wands in his possession, now had none.

Their battles ended up like this often. Knives had become standard protocol for the war since people were so easily disarmed, but even those only lasted so long. Hermione could only hope they never figured out how effective muggle guns could be. 

Malfoy’s body slammed into the ground with Hermione on top and her hands flew to his throat, squeezing as tight as she could. She relished in the feel of his windpipe cracking beneath her touch before Malfoy grabbed her by the elbows and threw her off. 

She landed on her back with a grunt, dirt puffing up around her and heading cracking painfully against a tree root. As Malfoy scrambled towards the wands on his knees and elbows, Hermione climbed to her feet and stumbled over to them. Her vision was blurred and there was blood leaking from her lower lip. She thinks she’s bleeding from the back of her head but she’s not sure.

Malfoy’s back was covered in blood and she could see where the wound still oozed. She didn’t make it to the wands in time to grab them, so she kicked them aside instead. Malfoy lifted his head and shot a glare at her. She smirked down at him, lifting her foot and standing it on his injury. He hissed out a breath through his teeth when she applied pressure.

“Looks like I might have punctured your lung.” She pressed further and the blood began to pool around her boot. “It would be a shame if this was the way the great Draco Malfoy died.”

He twisted his body up and spit at her. Hermione didn’t flinch when it hit her in the chest. When he reached around and grabbed her ankle she went to step back with her other foot, but Malfoy’s other hand wrapped around that leg. He pulled and her legs were swept out from under her and she landed on her arse with a thud. Malfoy was on top of her before her vision had cleared. 

He lifted his knees and placed them inside the V of her hips and she fought to keep her face neutral and clear of pain. He pressed and pressed until she heard a crack and then her nails were clawing at anything she could find. She thinks she might have gotten his face, but her vision was white with pain. She kicked wildly until she made purchase with something that had him doubling over enough for her to regain control of the situation. She rolled them over and was immediately thrown off. 

Malfoy was up and running towards their wands before Hermione had risen to her knees. He picked both of them off the ground, eyeing hers for a moment before tossing it in the opposite direction.

“As much as I’d love to leave you here wandless, Granger, we both know you have a tracking device in yours, and I’d rather not deal with it.” His words were heavily slurred and it didn’t take Hermione’s in depth knowledge in healing to know he was minutes away from passing out from blood loss.

“I’d love to stay and chat, or perhaps kill you, but it seems I’m running on limited time. I guess you win this round.” His eyes rose to the sky and he tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Though your only goal is to kill me. So I suppose anytime I survive is a victory in itself.” Hermione grit her teeth. “Let’s do this again soon, shall we?”

He apparated away. 

Hermione spent the next thirty minutes crawling around searching for her wand. She felt like her hip was fractured, though without a diagnostic she couldn’t be sure. Once she found her wand, she pulled herself up on a nearby tree, took three deep breaths and spun.

The pain was agonizing. A white hot line of hurt was drawn from her belly button all the way down to her inner thigh. Her head felt as if it was going to explode from the pressure.

She landed in the hallway of Grimmauld Place, collapsing to the floor the moment her feet touched the wood.

Fred was there in an instant, dragging her up the stairs by her shoulders. 

Fred had been captured and tortured for months on end. They had finally recovered him six weeks prior. 

Whatever they did to him, which he claims he couldn’t remember, it had given him an aversion to magic. Just a glance at a wand was enough to send him into a fit. He did what he could to help out, but until he was able to cope it was limited. 

“Blimey Hermione,” he whispered once they were in his room on the second floor and he had cut away her pants. “Did he mistake you for a bug? It looks like he tried to crush you.”

“You should— you should see the other guy,” she panted. 

He moved her lower half slowly until she was lying flat on her back. 

“Your hip needs to be set. It’s not going to be pleasant.”

Magic was amazing, but they had found that the best cases with the best success involved a mix of muggle medicine and magic. It allowed for the best healing. Only in dire situations would someone immediately take skelegrow without properly setting the bone first.

He tossed her a pain relief potion, which she pushed away. Potions were limited. She’d seen someone apparate in with their intestines falling out of their stomach.  _ That  _ was what pain relief draught was for. When a person was thrashing so wildly not even four grown men could hold them down. 

Hermione reached up and grabbed the bottom of Fred’s bedframe with a firm grip.

“I’m ready.”

\---

Thirty minutes later, Hermione was situated on a chair in the living room and Ginny was apparating in, limping slightly but still alive. 

“Just when I feel like I might be gaining ground, she apparates away!” She slammed down into the couch and gave Hermione a drawn look. “She doesn’t take me seriously. She doesn’t even seem interested in killing me, just escaping my attacks.”

Hermione placed a hand on Ginny’s knee. “That will be her downfall, one day.”

Ginny sighed, propping her feet up on the coffee table. “No luck for you either, then?”

“It was just as messy as always, but once again Malfoy walked away, half dead but too stubborn to succumb to his injuries.”

Ginny eyed her wrapped hip with pursed lips. “What did you do to him?”

“Punctured his lung. Another minute and he would have passed out from blood loss.”

Ginny shook her head slowly, whistling. “Closer and closer each time.”

Ginny had a bruise on her cheek and her temple was covered in flaky, dried blood. When Fred came in and saw, he paled. He offered to help heal Ginny, but she waved him off. 

Fred didn’t do well with large quantities of blood. He helped where he could and pushed himself further than he should because he wanted to feel like he was making a difference. George had been out tracking down Blaise Zabini for the past five months. It was easy for him to feel put out. He wasn’t even sure if George knew he’d been recovered. There was no way for any of them to reach out unless they needed to be called back to Head Quarters.

Harry came in an hour later with a shake of his head. He was  _ covered  _ in mud. He spoke to Hermione for only a moment before excusing himself to shower. 

Ron apparated in fifteen minutes after, face red and swear words flying. He stormed up the stairs and slammed his door shut. 

Hermione wanted to go after him, to find out what happened and reassure him that they’d bounce back and everything would be okay one day.

But Hermione wouldn’t be able to walk for the next few hours and her optimism had been the thing that had torn them apart in the first place. She was holding on for something better and Ron was just holding on. He didn’t know what else to do. 

She feared one day she’d wake up and he’d be gone. After Fred had been captured they’d assumed him dead. She’d never seen Ron so hopeless, a man that had never known true loss experiencing it in full force for the first time. She thought he wouldn’t survive the grief.

When Dean Thomas came to the house a week later to tell them he had it on good authority Fred was being kept prisoner, she saw some light come back into his eyes, a tiny spark that gave her hope that he might survive this yet.

It never returned all the way. Arthur had been gravely injured on a mission just a month later. He had survived, but any talk of the war was enough to get him twitchy and angry. Molly had taken him to an undisclosed location, where they could find some peace. They’d been fighting their entire lives for a war that never had to be theirs. They wouldn’t tell Ron where they were going, no matter how much he begged.

Hermione knew it killed Molly. She saw it in the way her shoulders slumped and for the first time the unbreakable woman from the Burrow was defeated. 

No one could know because at any moment one of them could be captured and then Arthur wouldn’t be safe. 

Her kids could have asked, and she would have let them come. It was the unspoken truth. But no one mentioned it, and the two left alone. Grimmauld Place was a bit colder afterwards. 

Harry entering the living room woke her from her musings. He tossed a beer at her and she nodded her head in thanks. After a few minutes of forced conversation, she asked about Ron.

“Nott’s got a mouth on him, that’s all. You know how quickly Ron flies off the broom handle.”

“If he could get a grip on it then Nott would have been dead months ago.”

“Nott’s not like the rest of them. He’s not still here because of his dueling or his excessive use of dark magic. He uses his wit and words the same way Bellatrix uses the cruciatus curse.”

Hermione peeled back the label on her bottle. “Perhaps someone else should be assigned to Theo,” she whispered, glancing at the staircase. “Someone who can block out his voice.”

Harry glanced at her tiredly. “Do you really think it’s the best move to be shuffling everyone’s targets?”

“I’m saying someone else goes after Nott for a few weeks.”

“Who do you know that wouldn’t react to Nott’s threats and taunts?” 

Hermione was silent. Harry sighed and rose to his feet. 

“We all have reasons to be angry. As long as there’s anger, people like Nott are going to continue to slide through life. We’re passionate, and it’s the only thing that has kept us going this past year, but it means we can’t keep our mouths shut and we never back down from a fight.”

Harry tossed something towards her and it landed in her lap. She picked up the bubblegum and let a small smile fall onto her face. 

“As soon as you’re able you’re headed to Wiltshire. Apparently there’s a healer out there Malfoy frequents after your battles.”

Hermione nodded. Back to isolation, then. “I’ll be ready by morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has been in the works since like.. the day after I finished NQDM. I'm currently working on chapter four, and would probably be further ahead if I hadn't turned Weather My Emotions into a multi-chap but... writing for that just wasn't hitting right so I'm taking a small break.


	2. Essence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just finished writing chapter 4, so here’s the next installment 
> 
> Also, I promise I’m not abandoning Weather My Emotions. This story just fits my writing style better at the moment.
> 
> TW: mentions of rape

Hermione left as soon as she was cleared to be able to walk. (Fred was the one that cleared her, and though he insisted he didn’t know what he was doing, she took his word as gospel and apparated away.)

Malfoy was seriously injured. If it was anyone else, Hermione would’ve been sure they were dead. The odds that someone would have the energy to both apparate and not pass out straight away were comedically slim. 

But Malfoy wasn’t the typical person. He had Dark Magic on his side. Hermione would like to think that if she was finally able to kill him, karma would be on her side and she would be able to watch the life drain from his eyes. 

She chased around Malfoy’s trail for weeks. His injury would have been easy to heal superficially using magic, but he should have been exhausted. The pace at which he was moving suggested he was capable and healthy. It was possible there was more Dark Magic at work, but Hermione suspected that he knew she was close and he was keeping the chase going. 

It was in the way the abandoned sheds and cabins she found were messy, with scraps of food scattered across the counter and pieces of clothing hastily left out. She grabbed it all up, threw it into a cauldron and brewed a tracing potion. It’s new. So new that she suspected the Death Eaters hadn’t figured it out yet.

But Malfoy wasn’t ignorant and he knew better. Hermione was a closed book but he didn’t need to read her to know what was going on. If he threw his hatred and arrogance aside for a few minutes he’d be able to figure out their entire war plan and everything after. He could tear it down before Harry’s dead corpse hit the ground.

Malfoy could rule the world, and as much as Hermione wanted to take him down to drag the Order closer to Voldemort, she knew it was much deeper than that, that he had much more potential than he’d let on. She was assigned to kill Malfoy, so she’d made it her life. Through that she’d realized the truth.

If the new world were to ever have a chance, Draco Malfoy needed to die.

After nearly a month of searching, Hermione finally caught up to him. She came upon an abandoned cabin with a light orange hue shining from the windows. It was rickety, blowing and bending with the wind, but she suspected it was being reinforced with magic. 

She approached slowly, crouched down and crab walking towards the front door. There were leaves and fallen debris on the ground that she stepped over with the grace that Hogwarts era Hermione could only dream of. 

At the stairs to the porch she noticed large circles of blood ascending up and increasing in size. The edges were dry and flaking while the liquid in the middle pooled a dark red. 

Hermione furrowed her brow, mouth dropping open slightly.

There was a slim chance that Malfoy was still injured; at most he should be experiencing some discomfort and exhaustion, but still  _ bleeding? _

Harry had said they found the place where Malfoy normally went to be healed. Hermione had found evidence he was there and had used that to track him.

So why was he still bleeding?

Hermione crouched down deeper and reached into her cloak for her wand. Whatever injury had brought him to a standstill was not from Hermione.

It was sheer luck that the stairs didn’t creak under her weight and a testament to how hurt Malfoy must have been that there were only four wards she had to break through to enter the door.

Once inside, she could see the light was coming from a sitting room in the back of the house. She stayed low, head tracking from side to side and wand prodding for any additional wards that might be hidden.

She could feel her breathing quicken and she grit her teeth to fight the urge to panic.

It was too easy. Her instincts were screaming at her to leave but she couldn’t tell the difference between paranoia and common sense anymore.

As she was about to enter the back room, which was the only area that had any signs of life, there was a shuffling behind her. Hermione turned, wand drawn, and was knocked to the ground as a body shoved into her. 

She kept an iron grip on her wand and stabbed a stunning spell into the overheated, sticky skin. It flew off her and hit against the opposite wall, falling to the floor with a terrible, headache inducing thud.

She took only a second to breathe, hoping to ease some of the shaking of her hands that the surge of adrenaline had brought on. She pushed off the floor and stood tall for the first time since she eyed the cabin. Slowly and with more care than she probably needed, she approached the body, which was facedown with a heavy cloak thrown over the head.

With her booted foot she shoved the cloak away. Below her, completely unconscious and very possibly dead was a werewolf, bleeding profusely from deep, long scratches down his back. His face was pale. 

He was young, she thought absentmindedly. Two years ago this might cause her to feel something akin to pity or sorrow, but now the sight couldn’t illicit a reaction even if there were ten of them surrounding her.

Fenrir Greyback was a monster that produced monsters. Hate ran through the veins of the werewolves, was transferred through the bite that transformed them and never left. Changing teenagers was a tactic used by the Death Eaters to play on the Orders want to help people. 

They hadn’t realized yet that the sight lost its meaning around the same time Hermione had realized winning a clean war wasn’t possible.

She stared at the boy a moment longer, willing herself to feel  _ anything.  _ Her brain was coping, she knew, trying to deal with the horror by packing it away and flooding her with adrenaline. Her hand shook when she raised it to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear and she wondered if her mind would ever realize she didn’t need that to drive her forward anymore. She moved of her own will, feet clicking lightly against the floor as she drew one of her throwing knives. 

She bent over the body, large for his age but so small for a wolf. She cupped his jaw lightly, and she thought he might have leant into the touch slightly. Before she could consider it or rethink her actions, she slid the knife against his throat. Blood sprayed against her midsection and his head lolled to the ground lifelessly as she released his jaw. 

“I thought he’d give you a bit more trouble than that.”

“You should know better than to underestimate me.” She didn’t turn to face him, didn’t even move. “You’ll have to work harder if you want to surprise me.”

She vanished the blood from her clothes, bending to the ground to pick up her knife. Ron had gotten them for her after their first target practice.

“ _ We weren’t keeping score but everyone knew who’d gotten the most bullseyes. Especially you. I haven’t seen your eyes light up like that since your perfect Potion’s score in sixth year _ .”

They were blue and silver, and the urge to make a comment about Ravenclaw was there, but she looked up at him and froze.

He wasn’t proud of Hermione. He was  _ scared,  _ terrified of the woman in front of him that could throw a knife at a moving target while blindfolded and still hit their most damaging arteries. 

He was trying, she could see it in the small lift of his lips and tilt of his head. He would always,  _ always  _ love Hermione and these knives were proof of that. 

It just wasn’t in the way she wanted anymore.

“You could have avoided this situation if you would have checked the blood to see if it was mine.”

She shook her head. “I’m sure you didn’t have half a dozen back up plans for each and every decision I could have made.”

“It doesn’t mean you made the right one.”

She turned, slipping her hands beneath her cloak to hide her knives. “There was no option where  _ he—”  _ she jerked her head to the dead werewolf, “—lived.”

Malfoy leant against the doorway, lips pursed and eyebrows drawn. “Well, I guess we’ll never know.” 

He turned to walk away and Hermione flung a knife at him, hand over handle. It was on track to hit him in the back of his skull. With a flick of his wand, the knife stopped midair, turned around and fired back at her. 

She slid to the right, boots squelching under the blood that was still pooling onto the floor. Hermione stood, yanking the knife out of the wall and walking to where Malfoy had disappeared to.

The fire in the sitting room was much brighter than it had been when she first entered. The light illuminated to show two armchairs and a couch, which Malfoy was laying across with the crook of his arm thrown over his eyes.

Hermione drew her wand across the back of the couch and it caught on fire. Before it could spread it was put out, smoke dissipating into thin air. Hermione jabbed a knife into the top of the cushions and Malfoy sighed dramatically.

“I’m tired, Granger. Why don’t you come back tomorrow and I can escape you then?”

“You’re alive until you’re not, Malfoy.”

“As long as you’re the one chasing me I don’t think I have much to worry about.”

Hermione grit her teeth, hand tightening on her wand. She wanted to hex him, throw curse after curse until he was writhing on the floor, twice as bloody and miserable as the boy she had just killed in the front room.

But she had been chasing Malfoy for a long time. He counted on her losing her temper and behaving irrationally. He was into big talk, using manipulative words and egging her on until she couldn’t hold back.

But what happened if she didn’t fire first? 

She wasn’t sure. It had never happened.

So she forced herself to loosen her grip and counted her steps to the armchair across from him. Fourteen. She threw herself down, sitting back and crossing her legs. In her cloak, her knives peaked out slightly.

“What would you have done if that werewolf had killed me tonight?”

“Gotten a decent night’s sleep.” His arm was still over his eyes and everything in Hermione told her to fire. 

But still she waited, taking a deep breath and relaxing her shoulders. She couldn’t trust her instincts when it came to Malfoy because he  _ always  _ had a trick up his sleeve. 

“And after that?”

He lifted his arm and squinted his eyes at her. 

“It was a game, Granger. There wasn’t a single doubt in mind my mind that you wouldn’t murder the boy.”

Murder. Boy. 

All bait, she reminded herself. 

“You can’t predict every single move. What if I would have slipped and fallen? Or maybe I might have gotten twisted in my cloak?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes, tossing his legs off of the couch and raising up to sit. He scooted towards the side of the couch that was closest to her and leaned his elbows on his thighs. His eyes were narrowed and Hermione felt satisfaction that no matter how evil he became she would always be able to annoy him.

“It’s all possible,” she said. 

“It’s also possible that the world get taken over by inferi and the entire Wizarding World War becomes obsolete.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t mean I factor it into my plans.”

“I always thought it was interesting that Hogwarts never offered any basic classes in arithmetic yet magic folk are so willing to hedge their bets.” She lifted her eyes to his, studying his face. He was wearing the same mask as always, but if she squinted she could see the beginnings of cracks forming. “Probability matters, but not as much as you might think.”

“Let me guess, you’d replace well thought out plans with the ability to love?” he asked drily.

Hermione shrugged, blowing a bubble and popping it loudly. “Let’s ask your Dark Lord which he’d bet on.”

Malfoy was silent, tongue poking through his cheek. She could feel his anger simmering below the surface and suddenly he wasn’t Draco Malfoy, Death Eater— he was the immature and naive boy back in Hogwarts, easy to annoy, easy to get in trouble and quick to fly off the handle. She could feel the shift in power.

Malfoy stood and the hand under Hermione’s cloak tightened on her wand, ready to fend off a surprise attack. 

“Get this through your head, Granger,” he whispered, twisting and walking away from her, “Potter will die. The Order will lose. And you will be a slave.” He turned, eyes scanning up and down her form in a way that felt like cold ice sliding against her spine. “I will take great pleasure in watching Death Eater after Death Eater fuck and beat you. I can’t wait to watch that light and hope leave your eyes.”

Hermione stood and squeezed the blade of her knife so hard she could feel wetness dripping off it. She used the pain to ground her. She had visions of Malfoy dead and what her life would look like after. She could feel the magic sparking at her fingertips.

But still, she did not fire. 

“If the light loses you will not find me alive. Perhaps if the  _ odds  _ deem it appropriate, I’ll sneak into Malfoy Manor and just start firing. Who knows who I’ll be able to take down before the man of the house is able to return.”

A spark of purple came flying at her and Hermione’s shield just managed to block it. She fired back with a slew of orange and blues. Soon nonverbal spells were flying from both their wands and the furniture around them was in several pieces and smoking. 

Hermione switched between using shields and dodging around the floor. She thought, if nothing else, at least she might be making Malfoy dizzy. 

She rotated the room while Malfoy stood in the center, practically sizzling with anger. With each circle she stepped just a bit closer, predator closing in on her prey.

She’d never felt more in control. She’d always been the one relying on emotions to fuel her and lead her in the right direction while Malfoy toyed with her, letting himself get  _ just  _ enough injured to get her hopes up before disappearing and coming back better than before. It was sick the way he was willing to put himself in danger to mess with her.

Except, this time, as she watched his uneven gait, she noted that he might not be all healed. She wondered how hard it was to take down a werewolf this close to a full moon.

She fired five consecutive stingers at his left leg. When he moved to deflect them she fired three at his right leg. They hit right above his knee. With a grunt, Malfoy fell to the ground, hand coming around to grip his thigh. She shot his wand away.

“Such a shame it’s still so easy to get you worked up.” Hermione walked over and placed her booted foot on top of his injured thigh. She put all her weight on it. Malfoy’s gritted teeth and tensed shoulders were the equivalent to an inexperienced in pain person’s screams of agony. She relished in it. When the bone snapped beneath her the sound reverberated through the room. It was sickening, and she felt pure joy from it.

Malfoy grabbed her ankle and pulled it forward, causing Hermione to fall forward onto him. He had to have been in great pain and she was sure to land  _ directly  _ onto his legs. Air hissed through his teeth but he wasted no time in grabbing her waist and flipping her over. 

With her back pressed against the cool wood floor she could feel the reality of the situation setting in. Malfoy’s fists connected with her cheek before she could process any further with rational thought. 

She spit at him, smiling when it hit him in the eye, relishing in the disgust on his face when he wiped it away and saw the red in it. 

“Next time, I’ll bleed directly into your mouth.”

He hit her again, this time a slap across the face that was meant to belittle more than hurt. She raised both hands in scratched down his face, from forehead to chin and then bucked her hips to try and knock him off, but he pressed his knees into the ground. She could feel his thighs tighten around her hips and suddenly she wasn’t just losing, but she was losing in a way that made her feel like less of a woman. 

She was grasping at the last bit of her control now, lashing out with slaps and punches to any area she could make contact with. 

“If you ever want to work on your hand to hand, Granger, I can perhaps find you someone to spar with.”

She reached both hands up and grabbed his arms, raising herself up to headbutt him as he was bent over, taunting her. Her forehead made direct contact with his nose, and her vision blurred with pain. She felt his thighs loosen in either shock or pain, and she took the chance and slid out from under his body. 

“Arrogance will be your downfall,” she said, kicking him in the back and reaching for her wand. 

He jumped to his feet and turned to face her, but it was too late. She had her wand pressed to his temple and her opposite hand around his throat, slamming him against the wall.

They stood still for a moment, and Hermione could see his eyes, steel and grey and as cold as she could imagine. They caused her pause for reasons she couldn’t explain. 

There were about a thousand nasty, life altering hexes on her tongue, but none of them seemed bad enough for what he deserved. She had killed someone tonight. A teenager that he had collected with the hopes of ruining her mentally. 

Her hesitation didn’t go unnoticed by Malfoy. He grabbed the wrist that held her wand and he jerked it behind her back, face coming within inches of hers. 

There were three long, bloody scratch marks down the length of his face. His robes were thrown open and it made him vulnerable in a way she hadn’t seen since their Hogwarts days. Still, the look did nothing to take away from the animosity shining in his eyes. 

“Make no mistake,” he whispered, teeth pressed together hard enough to crack, “if I wanted you dead right now, I could make it happen in an  _ instant.  _ You’re nothing to me besides a game, something to keep me entertained until I’m given permission to squash you like the pesky fly you are.”

Hermione’s stomach twisted and the urge to drop her eyes from his was swimming through her veins. He reached into his robe’s pocket and she truly thought this was the moment she’d be put out of commission. Malfoy would use one his dark artifacts and torture her so much she’d end up like Fred, or perhaps worse.

He pulled out a small object wrapped in cloth. He held it by the tip, and with the lift of his brows and a simple, “have a nice trip,” dropped it into her palm.

She was whooshed away, twisting and turning for several moments before she was dropped just outside the woods.

She stood and spun around, trying to place herself but not recognizing any of the landmarks. It was raining, the mud below her feet washing down to the pavement below. 

Through the haze she could see a large building not far off in the distance. When she squinted even further, she saw several masked faces charging her way.

Hermione swallowed against her dry throat and tightened her grip on her wand, prepared to fight.

She’d just been portkeyed to a Death Eater camp.

  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. Isolated

Hermione spent the better part of the night fighting off Death Eaters. She killed dozens, slashing ruthlessly with her wand at the young recruits. By the time the sun rose, she was tired, frustrated and covered in blood.

She looked around at the camp she had just decimated, smoldering embers rising from the ground where she had set about ten or so boys on fire.

Boys. Because that’s what they were. Hardly older than school age if she had to guess. She remembered being right out of Hogwarts, young and optimistic about the outcome, dangerously full of hope and ridiculously naive in her goals. Goals post war, which she now assumed she wouldn’t have, wasn’t sure she wanted anymore.

She walked deeper into the camp, searching for food or other useful supplies she could take with her. She was decent at foraging, and hunted when she needed to, but it would save her a lot of energy if she could just fill her bag with whatever they had here. 

She entered a large tent towards the center to see large stores of food. She lifted her wand to cast a stasis charm and noticed her hand was shaking. She wasn’t sure if it was from fatigue or shock— perhaps something in between but she couldn’t identify it because she was  _ numb.  _ She didn’t feel a single shred of emotion about what had just happened. 

Perhaps she could muster up relief that at least she wasn’t excited about it, at least she wasn’t thrilled to murder. She cast her spells slowly and meticulously, urging herself to feel anything beyond the numbness and exhaustion that seeped into her bones. But no, even that didn’t seem to bother her like it had before, feeling more like her normal state of being than anything else.

She should feel anger at Malfoy, because he had purposely sent her to a new recruit Death Eater camp. He knew what would happen. He knew Hermione would come out on top, because he was awful and evil, but he wasn’t stupid. Hermione was talented and he was aware. He couldn’t beat her in a fair duel and even their hand to hand and knife fights were becoming more evenly matched— Hermione spent hours exercising and conditioning for this to be true— so he used psychological torture to tear her down.

Hermione wasn’t sure how she felt about being a killer anymore. The first time she’d done it, it had happened so quick that she hadn’t had time to dwell on it. She’d moved on and shot down three more bodies that day because it was her or them, and it sounded selfish, but she’d choose herself— her side of the war— every time. 

She thought she’d have time to process it later on, but she’d never given it much more thought. She couldn’t say if that was intentional or not, but she knew it was better this way. If you didn’t see them as people, it was easier to do. And out of everything in this war, Hermione needed something to be easy. 

So she killed when she needed to and she didn’t think back on it. If she dwelled, she feared she would give up on herself and everything she told herself she believed in.

But now, standing here with shaking hands, stealing from the very people she’d just ruthlessly murdered, she worried that wasn’t true. It felt like she could think about it— often and consistently— and  _ still  _ not feel anything about it. She wasn’t sure she could feel anything anymore. She thought she might be panicking, so she took her pulse. It was steady and slow. Maybe she wasn’t able to do that, either. 

She packed up the last of the food stores and left the dusty tent, trying to decide if Malfoy had won or lost in his battle to damage her psyche.

\---

She was camped out in the woods on the edge of a Scotland forest. She’d found Malfoy’s newest trail a few days earlier and she was following it diligently, but as always he seemed to be one step ahead of her. She was annoyed, mostly because it was brisk and windy tonight, and even her strongest spells couldn’t seem to keep her fire lit. 

Camping as a witch wasn’t so bad. There were extension charms on the tent, cushioning charms on her cot and heating charms to place on herself and her blankets so she wouldn’t shiver through the night. But it was lonely. 

She hadn’t spoken to anyone besides Malfoy in months. She wondered if anyone else was having success, longed to speak to them about her experiences. She hadn’t used her voice in so long she feared it would no longer work. 

On days like this, she found herself excited to find Malfoy, not just because it would be another chance to try and kill him, but because it was another  _ human.  _ Another chance to talk, to be responded to, to be intellectually challenged. She yearned for it on a base level and the longer time went on the harder it was to suppress it.

She wondered if this was why she’d hesitated during their last meeting. Because she’d had time to kill him. It wasn’t a large window, but she would be stupid to pretend otherwise. She had the upper hand and she blew it, though she couldn’t place why.

On nights like this, when the loneliness hit so hard she wasn’t sure if it was the biting wind or the isolation that made her feel so cold, she could finally be painfully honest with herself. 

She didn’t care about the young Death Eaters she’d just killed. 

Being tired was better than being completely numb. 

She hoped she’d die during the war, but she hoped her death would make a difference.

She relied on Malfoy for human companionship.

_ Companionship,  _ ugh. She hated the thought, hated even more that she couldn’t find a better word for it. Friendship wasn’t it, and insisting she enjoyed his intellectual challenges was just too long of a statement when it all really meant the same thing.

In this way, Hermione supposed, Malfoy really had won. 

He didn’t need to send in werewolves to kill her or Portkey her recruitment camps. No, she was perfectly messed up just because of his existence. 

It didn’t matter though. She’d identified the problem and it would no longer hold her back. Hermione had hurt herself, had gone against her instincts enough to know when she needed to pull the trigger against her own urgings. 

The next time Hermione had the chance, she’d slaughter him.

\---

The next few days of isolation were no better than the last, but Hermione didn’t let it eat at her sanity. She coped by keeping her hands busy when she wasn’t trailing after Malfoy. She continued to knit tiny scarves and mittens for house elves even though it had been years since she’d seen one. In this way, she insisted to herself, they’d never take away her drive to want to do good, to want to make a difference. 

She foraged for nuts and berries even though she had enough food in her bag to last her more than a year, under a stasis charm and carefully rationed. 

She trained at night. Push ups, sit ups, burpees. She transfigured a pair of mittens into boxing gloves and gave her best to the tree next to her tent. Anything that would make herself stronger and less vulnerable, she made a part of her training. 

She thought about Malfoy and what he’d become to her, and came to wonder how he was holding up. She knew he was alone, could tell by the tracking spell that he’d had just as little contact as she had. After her bout with the werewolf in the worn down cabin she’d worked tirelessly to alter her tracking spell to include others besides Malfoy. He was alone. Just as much as she was. 

Then she started considering how Malfoy treated her. As a toy, would be the most accurate description, but she wondered if it weren’t more than that. 

He wasn’t normally one to mess around. His cards showed he wasn’t fond of torture, which was part of the reason Hermione had been chosen to chase after him. If she was captured, he’d be less sadistic than the majority of others present. No, he was quick to kill and even quicker to move on.

She couldn’t help but wonder if he hadn’t missed out on his own opportunities to off her himself. His speech about not being allowed to kill her yet didn’t phase her because she was simply too informed to know that to be the truth. 

Hermione was dangerous. She was ruthless. She had a kill on sight order on her wanted posters. Perhaps Malfoy wasn’t aware she’d seen those because they were only posted in the Ministry and Diagon Alley, and she had no business being there.

But she’d seen and she knew. It led her to wonder why he’d lie about it. More mental games, perhaps, but she wasn’t going to let his words get under her skin like that. She wasn’t stupid enough to believe Malfoy would pass up the opportunity to kill someone he wanted dead. It would be all too easy to stage an accident for her, if he was able to get to her.

But Hermione was good, and she didn’t allow much room for mistakes. That didn’t mean they didn’t happen, though.

Could Dark Magic damage his soul and core enough that he wasn’t able to feel emotions in the same way anymore? Was he able to feel lonely, or was there a spell to fix that?

She needed to exploit him, because he’d done enough trying to damage her in the past. Perhaps her methods for destruction had been too head on. 

They sat and talked last time. It was just a head game, foreplay to the battle that was to come, but was there a way to make it more? Perhaps there were cracks in his mask in which she could slither in, make herself at home and harder to kill.

It was outlandish and poorly thought out. She was convincing herself to befriend Malfoy as a way to exploit him. This would probably only get her killed faster.

But time kept carrying on and she was no closer to anything else that might work. She was running out of options and with each day she felt more comfortable with risking herself to get results.

\---

When she found his new hideout— a cabin that looked to be in less shambles than the last— she was still unsure on what she wanted to do. She wanted Malfoy dead, and she was okay with killing herself in the process, but she didn’t want her death to be meaningless. If she was going to do it, she needed to take Malfoy down with her. 

Her old processes weren’t getting results. Something needed to change, had to give if she were going to get what she wanted. But perhaps this idea was just better left as an exercise to stretch her mind— to show she could think outside of the box. 

She didn’t know what to consider crazy anymore. But her feet carried her forward, clunking up the porch stairs noisily and adamantly not dismantling any of his wards. Her wand was drawn, but only defense spells swirled around her mind. When she threw open the door, she leant against the door jam and waited.

She waited for a few minutes until she heard a sigh from the room in the back right. From a chair facing away from her, Malfoy rose and turned towards her. She gripped her wand nervously, but he merely rolled his eyes.

“You’re going to interrupt my afternoon nap but you draw the line at entering the house?” He sauntered towards her, eyebrow raised and face drawn in annoyance. She bit back a smirk because she was trying to stay serious, no matter how satisfying it was to push his buttons.

“What is it? Come for tea, have you?”

Hermione shrugged. “So rude that this is the first time you’ve offered me.”

Malfoy balked, and she could swear his shoulders drew closer together. “You normally come in wand blazing and knives drawn. I haven’t had the time for courtesy.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows, arms crossing her chest. “A pureblood gentleman must know it’s never too late to start.”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed and Hermione watched as his muscles tensed, starting at his neck and rippling all the way down to his feet. 

“Aren’t you concerned I’ll poison you?”

“Do you really think I haven’t memorized the smell, taste and texture of all magical poisons?”

“Perhaps I’ll stab you in the heart while serving you, then.”

She shrugged. “Perhaps, but you’ve aimed for the heart before and so far it hasn’t worked.” She pointed to a scar by her collarbone, covered by her cloak. “You did get me here once. I wasn’t able to heal it in time and I fear the scar will be there forever, but time will tell.”

“Marks are forever.” His eyes pierced hers, intimidating in color and seriousness. “Even if they fade.”

She looked at him, eyes not moving and body loose. His gaze flickered for a moment— so quick it could have been a trick of the light— but it wasn’t. She was staring at him with something other than loathing and he knew it and he was  _ uncomfortable. _

“I will poison your tea,” he said, sounding unsure but still in control. It was an odd sensation to be in front of someone who she knew to possess powers she could never dream of, and know  _ she  _ was the one making him uncomfortable. She felt powerful in a way she hadn’t since Cormac McLaggen had lusted after her in sixth year. It wasn’t the exact same sensation, but the idea was. 

“I miss holding warm beverages.” She pushed off the door jam and walked into the kitchen, past Malfoy, praying he wouldn’t stab her between the shoulder blades.

She took a seat with her back toward him. She turned in the chair and gestured at the kettle on the stove with her head. 

Malfoy stared for only a moment more before he stepped into the small room, dimly lit by lanterns placed sparsely around the house, poured her a cup from the already full kettle, and handed her a mug of cold tea. Hermione chuckled, spinning the glass on the table slowly.

“You are truly evil. It’s slander to present a guest with anything less than your best brew.”

He sat down across from her stiffly. “You said you weren’t going to drink it, what’s it matter?”

“It’s the sentiment, isn’t it?” She lifted her head and tilted it, forcing sincerity into her eyes when she longed to let the malice shine through. “Two classmates sitting and having tea.”

“Granger, I’ve no desire to have tea and discuss our intersecting past together.” He sounded exasperated, as if this was something they’d discussed before. 

“Why haven’t you shot at me, then?”

“What?” He furrowed his brows. 

“Now would be the perfect opportunity.” She dropped her wand on the table and it landed with a clatter, rolling to the edge and balancing precariously. “I’m not armed.”

His eyes narrowed down to her cloak. “You’ve got those ridiculous knives in your pocket.”

“True, but we both know your spell is faster than my knives.”

He sat back with his arms crossed, as if a challenge had just been issued. “I’ve got no desire to attack you. It’s your job to fly off the handle.”

“Except for last time.” She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t gloating.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “And yet here I am, still alive and unharmed in spite of it.”

She straightened, setting her hands on the table lightly. What had initially felt like a gamble was starting to feel more like a plan. “So you won’t have tea with me, and you won’t duel me either?”

“I’ll duel you, I just won’t initiate the duel like some kind of mongrel that can’t handle his emotions.”

“Hit too close to the past, does it?”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. “You can’t judge someone for their actions when they were twelve years old, Granger. You nearly died second year, yet here you stand, pestering me like an annoying owl with a message from my father.”

“So you’d rather I judge you for your decisions now?” she asked. “Wonderful recruitment camp, by the way, though you might want to inform Tom he may need to find some new ones.” She sipped from her tea. “The others seem to have mysteriously dropped dead.”

His gaze seemed to shoot through her. Years ago she might have flinched away, but a war full of emotional and psychological torture have taught her winning a pissing contest is more important than it may seem at first. 

“You drank the tea.”

She stood from her chair, and Malfoy reached for his wand defensively. “And you didn’t poison it.”

His eyes stayed trained on her, flipping from her gaze down to her neutral stance, as if he couldn’t quite place what was going on. 

“If you’re looking to redeem me, it’s too late. I’ve no shame in the things I’ve done.”

“So you admit it.”

“What?”

“That there was something to redeem at one point.”

He stood silent and staring. 

“The Order failed you that night on the tower. Or maybe they failed you long before that. I’m not sure, but I do wonder…” She met his eyes with a guarded gaze and shrugged, picking her wand off the table and turning towards the entryway.

“You can’t guilt me into changing sides.”

“That’s not what I’m trying to do.”

He continued to stare but she offered up nothing more. 

“I think I’ll be off.” She looked over her shoulder at where he was still leaning over the table. “Will you still be here tomorrow, or shall I need to track you down once more?”

He didn’t answer, so Hermione huffed a sigh. 

“Nevermind, I’ll just pop by and figure it out from there.” She walked towards the door and was a step out when he called to her.

“Granger.” She turned and gave him a questioning look. He was confused, openly and outwardly in a way she hadn’t seen in years. “What  _ are  _ you doing?”

She shrugged. “Something different.” She walked out and closed the door behind her, hoping and praying that would lead to something more than she’d pulled up so far.


	4. News

Hermione returned to the cabin the next day to see that Malfoy wasn’t there. It took her another three weeks for her to be able to track him down. This time he’d chosen to hole up in a run down muggle neighborhood. From what she could see, there was no one else around besides the two of them and Hermione wondered what spell he had cast to make sure none of the locals bothered him. 

They were still relatively close to the woodlands. It put Hermione on edge. More often lately she’d intersected with hags and werewolves. They were tricky to get away from once spotted, so she had to be extra careful to cover her scent— walk with the wind and with her ankles in the river when possible. It was getting painful to do so, as fall turned into winter and ice chunks slid past her frozen legs, but the alternative was a brutal death, so she took her chances with frostbite. 

There were spells to counter this and keep her warm, and also spells to make herself nearly impossible to track, but these days she could never be too safe. The word  _ paranoia  _ echoed in her head, but she shook it away because it was either obsess over it or die. She’d chosen her side a long time ago. 

When she reached the small, cracked house with chipped paint, she brought her knuckles to the front door.

She’d debated entering forcefully, but her mom had taught her manners. She could use them. Sometimes.

It took five minutes of incessant knocking before a muffled groan could be heard from the other side. When Malfoy opened the door with narrowed eyes and crossed arms, she blew a large bubble and popped it loudly. He flinched against the noise, looking around the area before pulling her in roughly by her elbow.

“Hiding from someone, are we?” She snapped her gum, watching as his eyes fell to her lips for a moment before promptly rolling them. “And here I thought I was your only pursuer.”

“I’m a man of many talents, Granger. I probably top more hit lists than you do.”

Hermione scoffed, hands falling to her hips. “I’m a wanted fugitive. You’re Tom’s golden boy. I  _ hardly  _ see how you could think you’re a hotter commodity than me.”

“Hotter.” Malfoy dragged his eyes up and down her form slowly, taking in her large blue jumper, stained pants and thick black boots. “Yes, I do think that’s the appropriate term for me.”

“Rich, coming from the guy who couldn’t even get Pansy Parkinson to put out.” She turned on her heel then, looking into the house for the first time.

It was as dimly lit as always, a few lamps and candles scattered around the small ground floor, a small couch and chair in the front sitting room, and a modest kitchen in the back, where she could see the tea kettle was set on the unlit stove. She looked back at Malfoy as she threw herself down on the couch. 

“Waiting for me, were you?”

He scoffed, leaning against the door jamb and crossing his ankles. “I’ve had that set out for two weeks. Thought you were a bit smarter, but I suppose I’m constantly overestimating your ability.”

“If you wanted more time to play, you didn’t need to leave the last cabin.” Her voice had a teasing undertone that she wished wasn’t as forced as it felt. 

She remembered that feeling, admonishing Ron in the common room for not working on his Potion’s Essay sooner, taunting Harry when he stared at Ginny for a moment too long. It felt like a lifetime ago, and as if it had happened to someone else and she was just a spectator, watching on with apprehension because she knew what came next. 

“You Order Members are so careless.” He turned and headed towards the kitchen, wand pulled out. Hermione tensed for a moment, waiting for him to fire and already fingering the throwing knives in her pocket. She listened closely, keeping her eyes fixed in front of her, determined not to turn around and give him the satisfaction of knowing she was on edge. That wasn’t what this was about, wasn’t what she wanted to accomplish. 

“Not all of us have the lack of morals you Death Eater possess.” She took in her surroundings, marking each exit mentally and reciting every deadly spell she could think of in alphabetical order. “ _ We  _ draw the line at lacing our blood stream with Dark Magic.”

In the kitchen she could hear him tinkering with glass, and the shrill sound of the tea kettle whistling. 

“Drawing lines will be your downfall, then.”

He reappeared with two steaming tea cups levitating behind him. He sat in the chair opposite her, leg crossed over his knee, silently appraising her. The tea cup floated into her hands, warming her icy fingers. She wanted to sigh into the heat. She lifted the cup to her lips, and froze. 

She sent the teacup flying at Malfoy’s head, liquid spraying all over the room, soaking her hair and staining Malfoy’s shirt. He stood quickly and gracefully, dodging the cup by less than an inch. 

He tsked at her, standing with his hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed. His tea cup levitated by his side faithfully. 

“Is that anyway to thank me for a warm beverage on a windy day?”

“It’s poisoned, you absolute  _ heathen.”  _ She grit her teeth, fighting the urge to charge at him and beat him bloody. “I chase you down for three weeks and you attempt to take me out with  _ poison _ ?”

“I’ve told you, Granger. Just because I make an attempt doesn’t mean I think it’ll be successful.” He grabbed his cup from the air and sipped from it. “Oh, now  _ that’s _ a good brew.”

She hadn’t even fully realized what had happened until she was three punches in, straddling Malfoy’s midsection and yelling obscenities at him. Malfoy bucked against her and threw her into the nearest wall.

They went on like this for a while, maybe twenty minutes or so. They exchanged blows and curses, never making it to their wands that always seemed to be  _ just  _ out of arm's reach. 

When it was over, Hermione was sitting on Malfoy’s back with a bloodied nose, three broken fingers and a cracked tooth. Malfoy was below her, bleeding profusely from his head from a wound Hermione couldn’t remember giving him. 

“Not so bad for a muggleborn, huh Malfoy?” She bounced on his ribs lightly, relishing in the pained groans falling from his lips.

“This is absolutely what I would expect from mudblood filth like yourself.”

Hermione stood then, reaching for her wand and then heading for the front door.

“What, you aren’t going to try and kill me today?”

She glanced back at him. His wand was to his left, just beyond his fingertips. Blood was dripping into his eyes, but he made no move to clean it. 

“It would be a wasted attempt.” 

And it would. Malfoy was faster than ever, sometimes moving quicker than her eyes could track. She didn’t stand a chance in a successful attempt until his guard was down. 

So she turned back towards the exit and tried not to think of how long it might take for the opportunity to present itself. 

“Until tomorrow, Malfoy.” 

\---

They went on like this for weeks. Hermione turning up at random times of the day and night, pestering Malfoy until one of them couldn’t take it any longer and the inevitable fight broke out. 

It always ended with fists flying, several broken bones and Hermione walking out as if she could care less about Malfoy’s existence. 

It wasn’t the case, of course, but she’d become a good actor over the past few years. She could shove aside her reason and instincts if it meant something better could come out of the situation in the end. She didn’t care if it took three weeks or three years. She would kill Draco Malfoy. She would do anything to make sure this was the case. 

About two months into their new battle set up, Hermione was approaching the new, surprisingly well kept cabin in the woods Malfoy had taken up residence in. 

She sauntered in, snapping her bubble gum loudly and snatching the full teacup from the coffee table. She sat back on the couch, propping her boots on the cushion and waiting.

Malfoy came in from the backdoor a few minutes later, cloak on and boots squelching from the mud beneath them.

“You’re late,” she said, not bothering to turn around. She no longer had to fight the urge to reach for her wand or knives. 

“But I left you a cup of tea for company while you awaited my arrival.”

Hermione hummed in agreement. “Still poisoned, but the sentiment is nice.”

They stood in silence for a moment as Malfoy removed his cloak and gloves, setting them on a table beside the front door. 

Hermione had learned how to read a room in her training for a war. She was an expert on body language and knew three spells she could cast nonverbally and wandless to check a person’s heart beat to see if they were lying. 

She knew twitchy fingers meant nerves and furrowed brows was one of the hardest impulses to repress. 

She could feel the moment the air went stagnant, heavy with words that hadn’t been spoken, that would alter her vantage point for the rest of her life. 

She knew when bad news was about to hit her. 

“So,” Malfoy glanced up at her, face completely blank. “Australia, huh?” 

And there was nothing but white for a while. Her ears rang and her vision disappeared behind the extreme fury she felt. She lunged at Malfoy and even though he was ready— feet spread and back braced— the sheer force of her attack had him stumbling backwards and slamming into the wall. 

She punched and kicked and scratched at him several times before she’d even realized she’d moved. She screamed, a sound of fury swirled with fear. 

Her parents. Her  _ parents _ . The one thing she’d fought to save and keep away from everything dangerous and she’d  _ failed.  _ Malfoy had found them despite the measures she’d taken to protect them. 

She wondered, for a brief moment when her brain started whirring again, how long he’d spent trying to locate them— or even how long it took him to realize how important they were to her. She never talked about them, and he never used them as bait to get her to fire first. 

He was sharp and smart, this she knew. But  _ patient—  _ that was where she thought she had him beat. 

But it had to be years in the making. She’d hidden them behind so many false pretenses— new names, new identification numbers and even a new career— it wasn’t something he could uncover in one night. 

She was attacking him and he was fighting back, finally. Flipping her over, grabbing her by the throat and slamming her head into the wall hard enough that she heard the drywall crack. It dusted up and billowed into her eyes. She shut them against the burn and kicked her knees wildly. His thighs clenched around her hips and he grabbed her wrists, pinning them by her head on the low edge of the wall. 

She was still screaming obscenities at him, until she realized he had gone still. She opened her eyes to see his looking straight at her with a furrow of the brow. His pupils were blown and he was panting. 

A wave of sheer desperation washed over her as she realized she would do  _ anything  _ for the war— anything for her parents. 

And Draco Malfoy was sitting on top of her looking just as confused as she felt and he was  _ all  _ she’d had for the past four months, and the irony of it all refused to wash over her until after his mouth had met with hers. 

It was hot and wet and twice as intoxicating as she could have ever dreamed. He kept her wrists pinned by her head even as she pushed against his grip, longing to pull on his hair in a way that would both punish and reward him for everything he’d made her feel. 

She opened her mouth and let him in to explore, head turning slightly and body arching against his— hard and strong and everything she’d already known, but had never thought of in this way. 

Malfoy was evil and vile and hated her on the basis of existence. But— there was a sort of power in that, wasn’t there? The fact that he could loathe her and everything she came from, but was still here, on top of her, grinding his hard cock into her thigh. 

She felt irresistible and suddenly the tables had turned, because she was underneath him but as she opened her thighs and he slithered between them eagerly with a groan, she realized this was a new type of battle. And she was certain she would win. 

She felt absolutely no shame as she moaned into his mouth, writhing against him and melting into his kisses that seemed to get messier and more desperate as time went on. 

The best part— or maybe, she would think later, the worst— was how much she wasn’t acting. Putting on a show perhaps, but the feeling was genuine. 

Malfoy ignited something in her that she hadn’t felt since the days following the Battle of Hogwarts, when things with Ron seemed like they could only be going one direction. She was wrong, of course, but this—  _ this  _ here, had none of the same pressure and expectations. She just needed to be present— loud and proud, sure to make Malfoy feel like the man that she knew he'd always wanted and pretended to be. 

So she keened in earnest, gasping excitedly when he finally released her wrists and she was able to pull them closer, hands tangled in his hair. 

She listened and took note of what he liked. She kissed down his neck and sucked long enough to take note of his pulse— one hundred and thirteen beats per minute. She ran her hands over the curve of his shoulders and found a new appreciation for all the hand to hand combat they’d engaged in over the past few weeks. Her mind fought against her body for a moment, hot and cold as she realized she could never undo this, never forget everything she sacrificed for the war. Even when it didn’t feel like she was giving up anything more than she already had— when this felt more like a reward than anything so far. 

All of this while a new type of desperation grew. One that started in her core and spread upwards, flushing her chest and face, causing her mind to grow fuzzy when he tore her pants down to her ankles. 

They didn’t speak, didn’t make eye contact as he lined himself up and slid in. In another time, she made a joke about lack of foreplay, but he went in with ease and the pressure was so perfect in that moment that she couldn’t pretend to care. 

It was quick and rough— exactly what she needed in the moment. She came with an intensity so great that it brought her back to reality, reminded her what was happening. 

Malfoy finished on her stomach just moments before the inevitable panic set in. He slid off of her quickly, turning away and buckling his pants. 

Hermione redressed and stood, wincing when her head throbbed in tandem with her racing heart. She turned and saw a small pool of blood where she’d been laying. She’d completely forgotten about her head injury. It felt poetic in a way she couldn’t explain. 

She swung around to face him, but he was already gone, walking through to the kitchen. She heard a tea kettle whistle. She didn’t know if she should follow him or leave, so she decided to do neither and sat down on the couch. 

He came back a few minutes later and a teacup levitated into her hand. 

She raised it to her mouth and sniffed. She fought the urge to smirk. 

“Poison,” she said, setting the cup down on the table. “Though not the same one as earlier.”

Malfoy leaned back in his chair and sipped from his tea slowly, picking up a parchment that was laid on the arm of the chair. Hermione’s heart twisted because it felt reminiscent of something she’d never seen. Something she didn’t deserve. 

“I’ve tried to poison you and you tried to beat the life out of me.” He lifted his eyes from the parchment and placed them on her. “So nothing has changed.”

Hermione assessed him for a moment, sure to keep her Occlumency walls up as he stared back. He didn’t flinch under her gaze, but she sensed a new type of apprehension that hadn’t been there before. Guilt, perhaps?

“Opposite sides of the war,” she said when she’d made up her mind. 

She stood then, walking to the door with an extra sway of her hips, before turning her head over her shoulder, hoping he’d gotten a good glance at her bloodied hair. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Malfoy.”

And he looked nervous, for the first time since she’d started chasing him down over a year ago. He’d been close to death so many times and never flinched, never even showed a sign of worry over his own life. 

But today, after fucking her into the floor, he seemed unsure. 

Unsure wasn’t what she needed. 

But it was a step in the right direction. 


	5. Twice Bit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic depictions of violence in this chapter

Over the next few weeks, nothing happened like Hermione thought it would. 

She returned to the cabin the next day to find it empty, door off the hinges and cupboards haphazardly open. It took her five more days to track Malfoy down to a werewolf betting hall. She couldn’t approach him there in fear of being captured, or worse. So she watched from a distance, waiting for her chance. 

It was fascinating to watch the way Malfoy functioned around— what was widely considered— lesser beings. Not quite as low as the muggleborns, because they were dangerous and often used as weapons to overpower any enemies. So they were tolerated and not given the credit they deserved for all they’d sacrificed and all the lives lost from packs around England. 

So they were giving freedom— to an extent— and an unlimited supply of muggleborns to hunt and take out their frustrations on. 

Hermione had come into contact with her fair share of mythical creatures in the past. Vampires were strong, but easily fooled. Hags were relentless, but not normally as well trained as her.

Werewolves were the worst. They were mindless near the full moon and ruthless when it came to punishments and torture. Nearly every fight with one had put her out of commission for a few days. 

The next week she followed him to the woods located somewhere near the Forest of Dean. Here, he set up a glamorous tent that was better off than any of the cabins he’d inhabited over the past year. 

The wards around the area were strong and secure, but nothing she hadn’t taken down before. Still, she decided to watch over the area for another day or so. It wasn’t common for Malfoy to make camp, and she wanted to figure out why.

On day two around three in the morning, Hermione was crouched in a tree with an excellent vantage point to both Malfoy’s setup and the surrounding area. It was colder up here, and she wanted to chop her hair off after her braid slapped her in the forehead one too many times, but she considered it the best spot for surveillance.

Except the wind was so loud. She hadn’t factored that in because she’d never assumed it to be an issue. She was young, she had above average hearing, if anyone was to ask her. Plus she wasn’t worried about any enemies that could silently scale trees. Malfoy wouldn’t attack her without attempting to make a scene first and truly, at this point, she was hyper focused on him and his out of character behavior. 

Vampires were the quietest mythical creature out there. She knew this, was aware that they could make nearly no sound when they were honed in on a target.

But she hadn’t worried about it because besides that, they weren’t the most intimidating of enemies. 

They often travelled solo, which made them hard to come by. They were dispersed all around Britain, and whole Hermione spent the majority of her time travelling in the woods— well it wasn’t necessarily a common place to meet up with one. They liked seedy bars and basement finds. Places where there was guaranteed to be no sunlight. 

So when suddenly Hermione was shoved out of her tree, falling about twelve feet down and landing on her side clumsily, she was shocked. Shocked enough to not feel any pain, even though she had heard  _ something  _ crunch. 

And then there was a heavy weight on top of her. She turned her head to see the glowing eyes of a tall, thin man. She wriggled beneath him and threw her fists, but he caught her wrists in one hand and held them above her head, taunting. 

She spit at him when his lips spread into a grin and she saw his fangs, long and pointed. His eyes were staring hungrily at her neck.

She tried to slow her breathing, to ease the blood flow and make herself seem less appealing. She fought against the pressure on her wrists to no avail. The vampire had yet to say anything.

She’d never been in a situation like this with a vampire before. She always made a quick get away, and assumed she’d always be able to do so. She hadn’t thought— hadn’t planned. 

It was easy when she was under Malfoy, because if she kicked and bucked and spit enough he’d eventually release her. Sometimes, if her wit was quick and her insults sharp enough, she’d say something vile enough that he’d lose focus and she was able to kick free.

She had so much intel on him and it had made her cocky and careless, and here now it might cause her life.

His fangs were in her neck before she could think any further. The pinch ached and increased in harshness as he began to suck. 

Hermione did not panic. She reviewed her literature on vampires and their feeding habits mentally.

It took on average fifteen minutes for them to suck a full grown adult dry. Ten minutes for said adult to lose consciousness. And five minutes for the vampire to drop their guard and become easier to fight off.

So she waited, laying stock still and keeping her body loose even as it ached to fight back. 

She had nearly two days to find an antidote before the bite killed her. Truly, she could be in a worse position. 

So Hermione didn’t panic, because lying here, underneath someone that played no part in her war— this wasn’t how she died. 

It was, however, how this vampire went.

She diligently counted to sixty five times. When she was done, she waited ten seconds more. Then, she rolled the two of them over and yanked her neck away. 

She felt the skin rip as the fangs slid down her throat before falling out. Blood dribbled down and soaked into the collar of her shirt, but she paid it no mind.

Below her, the vampire was stunned into stillness. By the time he’d attempted to fight back, Hermione’s foot was already on his throat, pressing down with her entire body weight, and there was a wood stake pressed to his heart.

The panic in his eyes didn’t make her feel anything. She pressed in with a calculated precision, wrinkling her nose as blood sprayed up at her, staining her face and burning her eyes. 

She pulled the stake out, wiped it on her sweater, and placed it back in her bottomless bag that she’d shrunk down and sewed on her pants as a pocket. She was  _ always  _ prepared for an emergency.

Hermione spent some more time disposing of the body and cleaning the area of any evidence that she’d been there. When she was done, she reached back into her pocket, took out a compact mirror, a needle and some thread. She held the mirror shakily up to examine her neck.

Below her pulse, she could see the tiny puncture holes, as well as the scratch lines from where the fangs had dragged down before being forcefully removed. There was still blood spilling from the wounds. There were streaks of flaky, dried flecks all the way down to her breasts. Her jumper was soaked through. 

She was light headed. Swallowing against her dry throat and pounding head, she lifted the thread and needle with her wand, took a deep breath and began to sew her skin back together.

She gasped against the pain, biting down on her lips to avoid screaming as she felt the thread slide underneath her skin and through the gash. When she tasted metallic in her mouth, she released the pressure on her teeth. She couldn’t afford to lose any more blood. 

She longed to close her eyes or look away, but she had to see. She had to do it. There was no one else around. So she blinked back the tears, erected Occlumency walls higher than any muggle skyscraper, and continued on.

She ground her teeth against the pain, realizing this was the type of hurt you never forgot. It would haunt her in her sleep, jump her awake as it happened on repeat during her dreams. She’d remember it during panic attacks when the line between real and hallucination blurred. The type of pain that wasn’t from  _ crucio  _ and wasn’t caused by anyone else, just her trying to save her own life so she could sacrifice it later, at the right time. 

When she was done, her neck was throbbing and the skin surrounding the puncture wounds was so tight she thought it might snap. She placed the needle and thread back in her pocket with shaking, bloodied hands. Panic swelled in her stomach as the feel of the thread being pulled across her skin played on repeat. If she’d eaten anything in the past day, she’d have vomited it up right then. 

The stitches wouldn’t hold. The magic from the vampire wound would dissolve them in twenty four hours, maybe less. She’d have to repeat the process until she was able to find the antidote. 

Magical medical supplies were hard to come by. There wasn’t enough left for anyone to carry them independently, not anymore. It all needed to be kept at headquarters. If anyone was injured enough, they could apparate back and receive treatment. And if they couldn’t make it back, well… they were too far gone then.

She could go to Grimmauld. She’d receive an antidote and actual,  _ magical  _ stitches that would hold. Plus, Fred was so much more adept than she was at the precision required for sewing skin together. 

But, she’d followed Malfoy all the way here. And she had no idea where she was. In a forest, yes, but to pinpoint the exact location would take more time than she could bargain with. Even if she did, there was no guarantee he’d be here when she returned. She’d have to start her search all over again.

It could take weeks. Months. All time she couldn’t afford to lose. 

So she took a deep breath and headed down to the stream that was nearby, hoping to scrub as much of the blood off her skin, hair and clothes as possible. 

It washed away in hues of pink and she thought of water colors, of the peace that might come with sitting down and painting the sun as it rised over the ocean. She’d never painted before, hardly considered herself artsy enough to be able to do it justice, but… maybe one day she’d have the opportunity. For now, she watched as her own life essence floated away and tried to convince herself it wasn’t as poetic as she thought. 

When she was done, she was shivering, aching and mostly miserable. But she was clean, and when she braided her long hair and pulled it to the side, it covered her stitches completely. 

When she got back to her original tree, she was exhausted and irritated. To her right, Malfoy’s tent sat, illuminated in orange light and exuding warmth. 

She was lightheaded from the blood loss and lack of food. She had stores in her bag, but her stomach was still turning from the sight of her stitches and the thought of eating was unbearable.

She shouldn’t go in the tent right now.

Logically, she knew this to be true. But she felt her inhibitions lowered, her decision making process not what it should be. She felt drunk, lightheaded and—  _ giddy _ .

It was nearing five in the morning and she could just… walk up to Malfoy’s tent and annoy him.

It was too tempting to resist.

So she broke noisily and messily through his wards and fumbled with the zipper on the outside with numb fingers. The wind bit at her wet hair angrily. Her ears felt like they were going to fall off.

When she stumbled in, Malfoy was sitting in an armchair, facing her. A cup of tea was in his hands, and a matching cup sat on the table in front of him. 

Hermione sighed against the warmth, trudging forward and grabbing the cup. It was painful against her hands, pinpricks of feeling beginning to awaken in her fingertips. She wrinkled her nose against the sensation.

Her mind felt as if it was swimming through honey. All the thoughts were there— everything she’d normally say and all the actions she’d choose to take— but there were  _ so many  _ and they weren’t coming fast enough.

So when she lifted the cup to her mouth, Malfoy’s eyes widened. 

She paused, cup pressed against her lower lip. “What?”

“Do you have a death wish?” His hand was gripping the arm of the chair hard, but he made no move to get up.

“More like I think death wishes for me.”

By now, rational thought had caught up to her and she remembered what poison was and where it normally resided when Malfoy was near. She set the cup down with a sigh.

“What a waste,” she began, throwing herself in the chair directly across from him, “that you have fresh tea leaves and you just,” she gestured to the cup wildly, “ruin them.”

Malfoy raised his eyebrows. “You act as if I’m just shite at making a normal brew. Not as if I’ve made attempts on your life.”

“Yes well, it all ends the same right?” Her words were slurring, and her vision was beginning to blur. This all felt very normal to her and wasn’t any cause for concern. “Can’t drink the tea either way.”

A crease appeared in Malfoy’s forehead as he studied her. Hermione played mindlessly with the end of her braid, watching him with glazed over eyes.

“Granger, are you—” he stopped, sat up straighter and schooled his expression into one of indifference. “Are you quite all right?”

Hermione hummed as she considered his question, lifting her eyes to the ceiling. It was enchanted to look like the night sky. It made her yearn for simpler times: a hot meal and living friends. 

“It’s getting cold out, isn’t it?”

Malfoy stared at her, mouth open. 

“And warming charms just don’t cut it, right? I mean,” she leaned forward, placing her elbows on her knees. “They’ll keep your body temperature regulated or whatever, but I’ve come to hate them too. Because if all I need is some affection— something as simple as a hug— would a warming charm work?”

Malfoy’s mouth was still hanging unnaturally wide.

“No, it wouldn’t,” she answered herself. “But the feeling is the same, when you get that hug from another person. So I think there was a point in time where my loneliness started feeling like cold hands and shivers in the middle of the night. So I cast charm after charm and when they didn’t work I assumed my magic was damaged, or my body had become immune to that specific spell but…” she lifted her eyes to his, and his outline was fuzzy. “Well I think existence is just cold, right down to the very core.” She nodded her head slowly, looking up at the lamps and candles. “The fire is nice, though.”

Malfoy was up then, walking over to her and placing her head into his hands. He pulled her face up until her eyes met his and she let herself swim in them for a bit, a grey storm that was more beautiful than scary, when it came down to it. 

He moved his palm down from her jawline and she let out a hiss of pain as he came closer to her stitches. It was quiet, and she hadn’t flinched, but Malfoy was observant and before she could pull away he was tossing her braid aside and examining her wound with a closed off expression. 

His mouth was in a straight line and his eyes stayed put for a while, until she couldn’t handle the pressure on her stitches and she tried to shake him off.

“Granger,” he spoke slowly, deliberately. “What happened?”

Hermione waved her hand nonchalantly before placing them on his wrist and tugging softly, longing for relief. 

“Just one of those death wishes we talked about earlier.”

Finally, he removed his hand and placed it at his side. With more tenderness than she’d thought him capable of, he took his other palm and angled her head softly to the side, so that her vampire bite was visible towards the ceiling.

She couldn’t see the look on his face, and her eyes were so heavy they were closing on their own volition. Vaguely, she heard him speak to her, but the words were garbled and she felt lulled into sleep. 

Malfoy shook her and she jumped straight, looking at him with a startled expression.

“Granger, I’m talking to you.” His shoulders were tense and his voice was rushed and irritated, no longer the soft tone he’d had just moments ago.

“Clearly not about anything very interesting,” she mumbled, snuggling deeper into the chair. 

“Is that a vampire bite?”

“I’m not saying.”

Malfoy balked. “You're not— why won’t you tell me?”

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest and stuck her nose into the air. “My injuries are none of your business. Besides, I killed him and I don’t want you to take credit for it.”

Malfoy raised his eyes to the ceiling, closing them while he inhaled a deep breath and released it slowly. When he was done, he opened them back up and walked away. Hermione watched him silently.

He came back with a cup of tea and a vial of clear liquid. He poured the liquid into the steaming cup and handed it to her. She refused to take it. He shook it lightly at her. She shook her head.

“I just watched you put poison in it.”

“It’s not poison. It’s the antidote to a vampire bite. So please drink it so I can heal the open wound.”

“I’m not drinking the poison tea.”

Malfoy’s jaw clenched. “It’s not poison tea. It’s vampire free tea.” He grabbed her hands with his free one, and Hermione marveled at how large and warm they were. He shoved the cup into her palms. “Now drink it before you become one and I have to kill you on principle.”

“You’ve wanted to kill me for years.”

“No,  _ you’ve  _ wanted to kill me for years. I’ve just played along. Besides, this isn’t the way you’re going to go. So drink the fucking tea and shut up.”

Hermione drank, because if she was dying anyways— and this felt a lot like dying— at least the poison might be quicker.

She didn’t feel any better or worse after the tea, but Malfoy leant over her and began murmuring spells. She couldn’t see his eyes, but his forehead was drawn in concentration and she stared at it wondrously. 

It was painless, mostly. She could feel her skin stitching itself back together in a much less forced way than it had with the needle and thread, but the sensation still reminded her of how awful it had been and she bent over immediately, vomiting onto the floor the tea she’d just ingested. 

Malfoy took three steps back, probably from alarm. She stayed with her head bent over, hair falling loose in her face. Her breaths were labored and they came hard, rattling her entire frame.

“These shoes are more expensive than anything you’ve ever owned.” From the corner of her eye Hermione saw him shake his ankles lightly. “And you’ve just soiled them with the antidote I gave to save your life.”

“Save my life,” Hermione said wondrously. “Don’t say it too loud. Someone might be listening in.”

Her head was still swimming but it was starting to feel more like misery than being drunk. Every limb in her body ached and even her hair felt as if it were weighing her down.

She didn’t have it in her to kill Malfoy today. Perhaps she should make her way back to her tree and rest there. She could try again tomorrow.

She moved to stand, legs quaking dangerously. The world turned right, then left, and then completely upside down. She held on tight to the arm of the chair with her eyes closed, concentrating.

“What are you doing?”

Malfoy’s voice sounded far away and echoed in her mind, bouncing off the corners sharply and growing in volume each time. She squinted against it, lips curling into a sneer and jaw clenching as she felt the noise might cause an explosion in her head. 

“Granger.”

His hands were on her shoulders. They were so warm and she leaned into the heat. When had she become cold again?

Something hot touched her lips and she forced them closed. It pressed harder and she shook her head, attempting to lean back but no, there was something warm and soft there too, preventing her from moving. 

Eventually, somehow, she parted her lips and there was a bitter taste in her mouth, chemical and familiar. Sleeping draught, and something else she didn’t recognize. She spit at it, but it kept pouring down her throat. She tried to hold it in her mouth but her nose was plugged shut and eventually she swallowed, choking on the liquid and gasping for air.

She was thrown back into the chair none too gently. Her eyes had been closed this entire time as she tried to focus on the attack but now they stayed shut because they were too heavy. Her body felt as if it was tied down to the couch. She tried to lift an arm and it wouldn’t budge. 

The world went black before she could try any further.

\---

When she woke up, there was a bright light streaming in from behind, illuminating the couch in front of her. It burned her eyes, which she was squinting to see through, and caused a dull ache in the back of her skull to bloom and expand outward.

Her lips were dry and her throat ached, both inside and out. She reached up her hand, but it only got a little ways off the arm of the chair before it was forced back down. 

Her head snapped up and looked down to see magically enforced rope at her wrists and ankles.

Hermione’s lip raised into a snarl and she fought harder, ignoring the sluggishness in her brain and trying to not be concerned when she couldn’t recall any memories from the previous night.

She was attacked, but she survived. She had done her best to heal herself and clean herself, and then… nothing. 

She was in Malfoy’s tent. She hadn’t seen the inside yet, but she recognized his cloak hanging on a rack near the entrance and the open flaps billowed with the strong winds. 

She fought against the restraints for a moment, feeling out their strength and wondering if she could break them with wandless magic. She tried three different spells.

They didn’t budge. 

She was weak, and when she looked down she noticed her shirt was soaked through with sweat, as if she’d been feverish throughout the night. 

She wanted out. She wanted to know what had happened. Why she was tied up, notably  _ alive,  _ in Malfoy’s current place of residence. 

“Malfoy!”

Silence. 

“Malfoy! Let me out of this damn chair!”

Outside, the birds chirped.

“If you don’t let me out, I won’t shut up.” Her voice was growing in volume. “I’ll just sit here all day and scream and— and hope it gives you a headache.

He was in front of her suddenly, though she hadn’t seen which direction he’d come from. 

His arms were crossed over his chest and his lips were pulled into an arrogant smirk that she longed to punch away. 

“Granger, and here I thought you might be dead.”

She pushed violently against the restraints. “Then why’d you tie me up?”

“One can never be too safe these days.” Malfoy’s eyes fell to her throat. “You never know what might come out of being unprepared.”

Hermione bared her teeth. “When I become a vampire, you’ll be the first person I suck dry.”

“No need for the dramatics, Granger.” He tossed an empty vial into her lap. She looked down to it, brow furrowed, before snapping her head back up.

“This is— when did you—” 

Her words weren’t computing and her thoughts were garbled. She was trying to understand the situation from ten different angles at the same time.

“Hermione Granger, vampire. Doesn’t really have a ring to it, does it?” His hand was stroking his chin thoughtfully and his words sounded so  _ convincing  _ that she had to remind herself it made no sense. Saving her life was the exact opposite of what he should have done. 

“Malfoy, untie me.”

“I quite like you like this.” His voice was soft, and suddenly Hermione was scared. It had been weeks since she’d not felt… well safe wasn’t the word, because Malfoy was vile and evil and she would never feel comfortable around him. But… she’d woken up restrained in his tent and she hadn’t felt  _ afraid.  _

“Untie me,” she said again. 

He grabbed onto her single braid, lightly twisting it around his fingers. Hermione fought against the urge to squeeze her eyes shut.

“What was your plan?”

Her braid dropped with a light thud against her chest and Malfoy took three steps away. Hermione opened her eyes. 

“My what?”

“Your plan,” he said, leaning against the arm of the couch opposite her. “To deal with the vampire bite.”

Hermione opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened, let a choked sound out, then closed it again. “I… I was going to find an antidote.”

“How?”

“How?”

“Yes, as in where were you planning on going for the antidote? What were you planning on doing?” He paused, licking his lips. Hermione’s eyes watched the motion. “ _ How  _ were you going to do it?”

Malfoy was clothed in a tight black shirt as opposed to his normal robes, which probably meant he’d been out in the muggle world. She knew he went, had tricked him there more than once, but she’d never seen him out of his normal Death Eater get up. She found it distracting, for some reason. 

“Granger.”

She snapped her eyes back up to his face. His expression was serious and she felt… uneasy. 

He was powerful, yes. She was scared. But there was something else, too. As if those two things combined to make something stronger, much more dangerous. 

Her eyes fell to his lips again. 

Suddenly the binds around her wrists and ankles disappeared and she launched herself at him, lips crushing against his in a desperation that had crashed into her. 

And yes, she was trying to sidetrack him, but more than that she was gaining back her own control. Because if this was what she needed to stop the questions and to get herself loose, then she’d do it. Willingly. 

His hands were scrunched in the back of her jumper and she threw her arms around his neck to pull him in closer, to make it easier when she dipped her tongue into his mouth. 

He tasted like perfectly brewed tea and expensive scones. His mouth was hot and a memory of last night flashed in her mind suddenly, of warm, gentle hands cupping her face. Concerned, grey eyes that seemed torn. 

He was pulling away from her suddenly and she snapped her eyes open. 

He was breathing heavily, staring at her with a confused look and blown pupils. 

“Why did you help me?” 

The question slipped out. She didn’t mean to ask it because she hadn’t considered the ramifications of it yet. 

But she  _ had  _ to know. Malfoy of three months ago wouldn’t have done that, would he? 

He stayed silent, staring. She couldn’t read him. 

“Things are better for you if I’m gone, right?” Her voice was edging on desperate and she wasn’t sure what exactly she was referring to anymore. Because they’d danced around each other before, played games up and down the borders of England and for some reason this one felt  _ different.  _

And it was. She knew what it could be to sleep with an enemy, even if it meant she’d get what she wanted in the end. She knew what it could do to her.

She just didn’t know what it would do to  _ him. _

“Are you a fighter, or not?”

Hermione balked at this. 

“Of course, have I not survived this long?”

“So did you want me to let you get taken out by a vampire?”

“I wouldn’t have died.” She had options. Even if the bite worked her way through her system. She could have continued on as a vampire. 

“I won’t do it again.” It came out as a whisper. He stepped until he was right in front of her once more, hand coming up to her neck and squeezing lightly at where her bite had been. She flinched against the sensitive flesh. “It’s not how it’s supposed to go.” 

His lips were at her neck suddenly, laying wet, open mouth kisses against her pulse that had her eyes shutting and her hand squeezing his bicep for support. 

“ _ I’m  _ the only one that gets to kill you.”

“You could have— could have finished the job last night.” He was moving lower, skimming the collar of her jumper with his tongue. 

“Too easy.” He pulled away and Hermione shivered against the cold empty space where he’d been. Quick as a flash he was lifting her shirt over her shoulders and discarding it behind him. He pulled her against his chest and his eyes were serious, deadly as he spoke.

“Rest assured Granger, when I want you dead, you will be.”

And then his lips were against hers once more, with more fervor than before. She could hardly keep up. She was picked up and he was palming her breasts. She was shoved harshly against a wall, back aching with pain and a moan of pleasure spilling from her lips. She was on top of Malfoy, on the couch, fumbling with his belt and zipper while his head was thrown back, eyes squeezed shut.

And then she was riding him, loudly, shamelessly, watching as his eyes became rounder and more open. She drew her hands down, touched her breasts and tweaked her nipples. Malfoy groaned so she did it again, this time with a breathy moan. She rode and ground down and humped with reckless abandon, until his hands were at her clit and she forgot she was putting on a show, forgot about everything besides pleasure and Malfoy. 

She kissed his lips sloppily, moaning into his throat and relishing in the way his hand tightened around her waist with each sound, until his pace faltered and all sense of control was lost. 

She came, because he’d know if she faked and she needed to be committed. That was the only reason, she told herself. 

They sat afterwards, redressing in a silence that was too comfortable. 

She wanted to say something snarky, something rude and disarming that would throw him off course. 

But nothing felt right, so she pulled her top on angrily and reached for the empty vial on the table. 

“Thanks for this, by the way.” She shook it at him. “But saving me will be your downfall.”

He was still seated on the couch, arm thrown carelessly over the back. His eyes were glazed over, and Hermione wondered how much sleep he’d gotten the previous night. She’d never thought about how odd it was that he was always awake when she came to visit. 

But it was. Odd.

“As if I have any further down to go.”


	6. The Changing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed the graphic depictions of violence tag before reading this chapter

Hermione spent the next few days trying to pinpoint the exact, pivotal moment her viewpoint had altered.

For a moment, she believed it was in the Department of Mysteries, when a deadly curse was thrown at her and she survived based on a technicality. But still, she knew it had happened before then.

It could have been in fourth year, when Harry came back with Cedric Diggory’s lifeless body. But she watched the light sink out of Harry’s eyes day by day afterwards, and when she watched her very first dead body fall in the heat of battle, it felt nothing like what he’d described.

If she was honest— painfully, gruesomely willing to tell the truth to herself— she could pin it back to third year. When slapping Malfoy in the face was a more religious experience than any Sunday Bible study had ever given her.

It was her first real experience in violence, her first taste on what inflicting physical pain on another was like.

Her adrenaline had been pumping afterwards, blood singing through her veins as she listened to the pained, pathetic whimpers of Malfoy as he ran away, frightened. 

Scared.  _ Of her.  _

Things changed for Hermione after that. She was a know it all, yes. She was annoying and nagging and everything else everyone called her that made her feel less important than Harry or Ron. 

But she was powerful, too. 

She didn’t pull it out all the time. She let it free once or twice during the DA meetings to prove Ron wrong, or to impress the other girls that had never warmed up to her like she’d wished. 

Mostly, just knowing it was there, lying beneath her skin and preparing for when she’d need it most was enough to soothe her.

Long after the Battle of Hogwarts, when they were passing around scorecards of every remaining Death Eater and assigning teenagers to kill grown witches and wizards like it was commonplace— when morale was at its lowest and they weren’t given the time to properly mourn their dead comrades— Hermione let the power roam free. 

She killed three times as many Death Eaters within the first year the Order returned than even the most experienced Aurors. 

Kingsley clapped her on the back. Harry stood by her, unsure but knowing what needed to be done to end the war.

Ron watched on as if he didn’t recognize her. 

No one had expected it. Not Hermione Granger, the Quidditch hater and bookworm. There was no way she was such a talented dueler, so skilled with knives and swords. She had no physical prowess. Her time was best spent behind a cauldron, pulling random facts from the dozens of books she read and saving the day, but never really getting the credit.

Hermione Granger had no depth. 

She knew it was what people had thought about her. Had known since she’d learned to read facial expressions and body language. She saw it in their clenched jaws and eyerolls during Order meetings. Barring Harry and  _ sometimes  _ Ron, no one thought she had earned the right to be an Order warrior. 

But she had felt the power, way back when before puberty had even struck. 

She trained in the middle of the night while everyone else was sleeping. The Order had spent eight months underground, plotting and organizing, planning to come out stronger than before despite their weak numbers.

Hermione was no exception. 

It started with a set of raised eyebrows from an instructor when she was the first to perfect a newly created drowning spell. Then it was a pat on the back when she’d pinned Ginny during hand to hand. 

Eventually, it was Kingsley calling her up to the main table to ask her strategy questions. Then it was Dawlish asking her to take over his Tuesday night training on knife throwing. 

It was Hermione moving forward to places people never suspected she’d go, and not looking back. 

Even when there was a red haired man with the friendliest blue eyes behind her.

Even when she desperately wanted to.

Now, as she stared at Malfoy’s latest cabin sequestered in the woods, she wondered if she’d ever be able to find her way back to the girl she was before. The one that felt power, but didn’t need to use it. Who felt joy and femininity in her uncharted potential. 

She wasn’t sure she could even look at herself in the mirror anymore. 

She had a target. She had a goal, and a plan to get there. 

But, for the first time, she wasn’t sure if it would be worth it. 

Malfoy saving her life didn’t need to be a big deal.

She told herself this— spoke it on repeat like a mantra to keep herself going. 

But— Hermione had always had pretty shite intuition. She’d been wrong about Malfoy being a Death Eater in sixth year. She’d spent five years in oblivion as Ron pined after her, only realizing after it was too late. 

And then the war had gone and put her into survival mode, and now she could hardly tell what was real anymore. 

But still, something in her gut told her to be wary of Malfoy. That her plan had soured and she needed to try something new.

She was in too deep. She knew this, because she’d become flexible throughout the years. She could spend hours on an idea, implement it for two seconds, realize it wouldn’t work and change it at the drop of a hat.

Hermione didn’t want to change this one. She was stubborn and persistent, all the things she’d been told would get herself killed.

Maybe it would, but she wasn’t ready to put anything else in motion. All she had was her body she had no issue exploiting, and her brain that was currently screaming with alarm bells she was adamant to ignore. 

Because Draco Malofy was suddenly more than the annoying Death Eater that got way too much enjoyment at bringing to the brink of death.

He was a mystery, with shrouded eyes and an emotionless face.

Hermione never passed up the chance to solve a mystery.

She shook her head out, pulling her braid to the side, and trudged through the fallen leaves to the dimly lit cabin.

\---

Hermione walked silently towards the porch steps as snow began to slowly fall. She stepped up gently, wary of the icy steps.

She broke through three wards before she was able to turn the handle on the door. 

Inside, not a single candle was lit. She could hear her own heart pounding in her chest. 

She walked forward, cringing as the old floorboards groaned beneath her boots. Hermione reached into cloak and clenched her wand with a white knuckle intensity. 

Instinctively, she crouched into a predatory stance and crept forward, wand at the ready and three different nonverbal offensive spells on the tip of her tongue.

She made it to the kitchen before she heard any signs of another person.

It came from the floor above her, and for a moment she wondered if she’d imagined it. 

It was subtle, a low growling sound that didn’t last longer than a few of her slamming heartbeats. 

Her hands began sweating and the world went dark for a moment as she came to terms with what was happening. 

She assessed the room for only a moment longer, head whipping from left to right as she searched for the best exit. 

There was a door at the edge of the kitchen counter, light peering in through the cracks of the drywall. She lunged towards it, desperation clawing its way up her throat and then—

Malfoy was in front of her. He put a finger up to his lips and motioned for her to stay still. 

For a moment— a stupid, oblivious passage of time— Hermione trusted him. She reached out to him, their fingers just touching and relief flooding her system before—

Malfoy spun on his heel, and with a huge  _ crack,  _ apparated away. 

Hermione tried to follow. But she spun around three times before the panic reappeared and she realized she hadn’t just miscalculated— she had mistrusted. 

Footsteps. Large, thumping steps down the stairs. Hermione froze, breath catching in her chest, palm frozen just inches away from the handle. 

Her back was facing the figure that had now stopped still at the bottom of the stairs, right by the front door. She could feel its aura— large, dangerous. Blood thirsty. For a moment, Hermione let herself hope that it would leave out of the door and spare her life. 

But things hadn’t been that easy in years, and Hermione listened as sharp, thick nails scraped against the wood floors, turning to face her.

She couldn’t force herself to look. There was no way out, even if she had sprinted out of the door the moment she’d found it.

Because she knew the sound of a werewolf when she heard it. She knew the statistics, realized how lucky she had been to not encounter one of this size yet.

The werewolf let out a howl, and Hermione twisted around and shot a nonverbal stunning spell at his chest.

He was big, much larger than the teenage boy she had killed earlier in the year. Probably much higher up in the pack ranks, and therefore more skilled. 

The stream of orange hit the wolf square in his throat, and bounced off pathetically.

The beast didn’t even falter back a step. 

Hermione let out a shaky breath and ran, throwing open the door and sprinting, hoping to find a spot past the apparition barrier.

Apparition barriers were nearly impossible to break down, which was why it was so easy to corner the Death Eaters without them running away quickly. There were disadvantages to this, of course. Hermione just had never thought it would be the reason she died. 

The werewolf was on her heels in no time. She could feel his hot breath on the back of her neck before he lunged, knocking her forward and rolling together a few times.

She reached into her cloak and grabbed one of her throwing knives, jamming it in between his ribs. 

His squeal was high pitched enough to make Hermione’s ears ring, but he only released her enough for Hermione to move her legs underneath him and push up,  _ hard.  _

The knife wound, combined with her frontal attack was enough to create space for Hermione to wriggle out of his grasp, just seconds before his teeth aimed for her neck. Hermione was on her feet immediately, running upwards toward a cave. 

Logically, it didn’t make sense. Hermione didn’t have any supernatural powers on her side, and she was well read on the subject of creatures of the night. 

_ They could see in the bloody dark.  _ She was just putting herself in even more danger by eliminating one of her senses.

But she couldn’t help but feel instinctually that it was a situation such as that which would stop her from thinking so damn much. She could rely on herself to just react, and that felt more right than anything else as her mind whirred with all the ways in which she could suffer a painful, meaningless death.

The werewolf was playing with her, a game of cat and mouse that she was destined to lose.

She clambered her way up the hill, tripping over gnarled tree roots and fallen branches. By the time she reached the top, her calves were aching and her shins and thighs were covered in tiny, pinprick scratches.

Once she was enveloped in darkness, Hermione took to a corner and hid, pulling out her wand and the other two throwing knives.

She heard the werewolf enter, treading on fallen, dead leaves. She listened as his steps slowed, growls filling the air. He inhaled slowly, sniffing out her scent. 

Hermione took deep, slow breaths in an attempt to slow her heartbeat. It was pounding hard enough that her head shook with its rhythm. When she raised her hand with the knives, it shook violently.

When the wolf turned the corner, she waited five more paces before she shot a slicing spell, long and deep enough to kill a full sized troll in just a few minutes.

He yelped, and the sound traveled right to Hermione’s soul. If she came out of this alive, she’d never forget it.

Even as she heard the blood gushing out of the wound and hitting the dirt floor, she felt him lunge and land on top of her.

Hermione pushed back against him, shoving her last two knives deep into his stomach and pushing on the body with her feet. She could feel the blood seeping into her clothes, slicking her grip on the blade of the knives.

Her exhausted muscles screamed for relief. With every second that past, his snapping snout grew closer to her shoulder. She pushed back harder, grunting and gritting her teeth with the effort.

But the force was too great and she was too spent. Her arms gave out, and she listened as he tore into her flesh, narrowly missing her throat and latching onto her right shoulder.

Hermione didn’t feel any pain right away, but was forced to listen to the sounds of her skin ripping open, her collar bone crunched between the jaws of the beast above her.

She could feel his claws ripping through her thighs and arms, running through her like she was made of soft butter. The sensation was blinding— if she’d been able to see. 

She’d given up on her fight. The pain and horrific sounds made her want to curl into the fetal position and wait for the graceful hands of death to carry her away. 

Above her, the werewolf was fading. His movements became sluggish and sloppy, and more of his weight was falling onto her as the blood loss slowly killed him. She wondered who would be the first to go.

For the first time in her life, Hermione wished for death. She tried to distract herself from the throbbing ache, but whenever her mind wandered she saw a pair of icy gray eyes and the feeling of betrayal was almost as torturous as the physical pain.

When the werewolf collapsed completely on top of her, she laid there, letting the breath be sucked out from the pressure. She waited— waited for her turn. 

Five minutes passed before she felt a sob creep up her torn, bloody throat.

It never made it to her mouth. She supposed it probably couldn’t make it all the way out, maybe slipping out at the slices in her throat. 

She closed her eyes and took it all in. The pain, the betrayal and everything that came in between.

She could blame Malfoy— because she’d  _ trusted  _ him. To get her out of there, and maybe to not even put her in that situation in the first place.

But— in the end that was her own fault, wasn’t it? Malfoy wasn’t her friend, he wasn’t responsible for her safety. Quite the contrary, actually. Wasn’t the whole point of this plot to get  _ him  _ to lower his guard so she could make the silent kill? 

The irony was bitter in her mouth, overpowering even the metallic taste of blood.

She wanted to die, right there in a puddle of her own essence and misery. It felt like its own karmic retribution against Malfoy, because part of her knew he thought she’d be able to get herself out of this. 

Hermione had always been a fan of lists. Grocery, to-dos. Pros and cons. 

So she weighed the pros and cons of her getting up as her head began swimming with lack of oxygen. 

Pros of staying down: Malfoy would probably feel some guilt and misery. She would be done with the war. She’d be done with everything. 

She wouldn’t run the risk of transforming into a werewolf every full moon.

Cons: She hadn’t finished all her tasks the Order had assigned. Hermione was a completionist; she thrived on perfect scores and ticked off items.

Harry and Ron would never recover from this. Not fully. Not the way she’d want.

Hermione was strong. She didn’t stay on the ground when she was knocked down. 

She grabbed a hold of the wiry fur above her and pushed, rolling over with the force. She screamed against the pain of moving— against the fatigued muscles and open wounds. 

She pushed to stand, swaying on her feet and listening as the blood roared in her ears.

She wasn’t sure she could make it. She knew she had to.

Slowly, with her feet dragging in the dirt she walked towards the cave, illuminated by moonlight. She squinted against the brightness and her head pounded as the tree line filled her vision. 

When she reached the edge, she peered down, searching for the cabin. Her legs shook with the effort of keeping her upright and little black dots began dancing in her eyes. 

She had almost turned around— ready to limp back to the cave and apparate her way to unconsciousness— when she saw him.

A blonde blur standing at the bottom of the hill. She could hardly make him out through her cloudy vision, but she glared down, hard. 

She waited only a moment more, before spinning on the spot and disappearing.

\---

Hermione never knew how much blood could fit into a human until she saw it, spilling onto the floor. 

She had heard it said a million times before, even though she had never asked. 

Still, the first time she had seen a man bleed out at the hand of her own knives, she’d watched on in fascinated horror as it flowed, soaking into the snow surrounding the body, turning from white to soft pinks— that reminded her of rosy baby cheeks and fluttering hearts— and then to a dark, evil color she’d never be able to look at without her stomach taking a sharp turn that always ended with the world turning sideways and Hermione’s head between her knees. 

Three days after Hermione had fled to Order Headquarters, she returned to the cave and was, once again, surprised at the amount of blood a body could carry. 

Except this time, it was her very own essence, soaked into the dusty stone floor, congealed with the dirt and reeking of decaying flesh. 

She gagged upon entrance, reminded of burnt bodies and battlefields overflowing with innocent lives. 

Harry had begged her not to go. 

“You’re too weak,” he had insisted, latching onto her elbow tight enough to cut off the circulation. 

Too weak. Not ready. 

Fragile. 

Unstable. 

Different words, all trying to control her, to manipulate her into doing what  _ they  _ wanted for her. 

They'd never asked her opinion, deeming her _ not of sane mind _ because of her  _ condition.  _

“Werewolves heal at three times that of an average human.” She didn’t turn around. She didn’t need to see him. “Did you know that?”

His fingers loosened around her bicep and she snatched it away, storming out of the room and not looking back. 

She walked around the cave, looking at all the evidence that pointed to  _ dead  _ and wondered if she’d made the right decision. 

She’d woken up just hours ago, gasping and fighting against the magical binds that held her down. 

Fred had come running in just moments later, red hair askew and a grin wide on his face. 

“You’re alive,” he breathed, and then his arms were around her shoulders and Hermione felt whole for the first time since the Battle of Hogwarts. 

He pulled back, rubbing her shoulders up and down. She hadn’t realized she was shivering. “What happened?”

Hermione couldn’t place the compulsion, but the truth came flying out of her mouth as if he’d poured Veritaserum down her throat. 

She told him everything. About her plot, about Draco’s vulnerability. 

About the sex. 

When she was finished, Fred sat on her bed with his head in his hands and his eyes glued to the blanket. 

“Do you—“ he lifted his chin to her. “Do you think it would have worked, if you’d had more time?”

Hermione shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I’m perfectly equipped to kill him now.” She fingered the bandage wrapped around her shoulder. The skin beneath throbbed under her touch, searing hot even through the thick fabric. 

To her surprise, Fred barked out a laugh. She furrowed her brow at him. 

“You’ve always been resilient, Hermione. But only you would start plotting when you can barely stand.”

He grabbed her hand and squeezed lightly. Hermione felt tears prick at the edge of her eyes before she dropped her head. 

Fred deserved better than he’d gotten here. She wanted to make sure he got everything else he wanted in life. He’d already lost his own sanity. 

In the cave, she circled around her blood stains and forced herself to relive the horror. She stayed until her hands shook with anger and her feet ached from exertion, until she could close her eyes and still see Malfoy’s cowardly form in the darkness. 

She hadn’t let herself dwell on pity or sorrow. She didn’t question the reason her heart ached or why this all felt more painful than when Ron had turned down her advances. 

She just felt angry. Anger would get her where she needed to be, it would fuel her and morph her into the woman she needed to be to get her job done.

Hermione was a survivor and a killer. She snuck through the cracks and  _ always  _ got the job done. 

Right now, her mouth watered with the thought of finishing off Malfoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter that started it all literally a year ago. I was listening to Thousand Eyes by Of Monster and Men and the scene where Hermione comes out of the cave, alive, despite the odds, was PLAGUING MY BRAIN. I can’t believe it took me this long to write it down.


	7. Bonded

Hermione spent the next few weeks traveling through the woods trying to pick up Malfoy’s scent. It was always hardest to track him down when she was forced to apparate back to Head Quarters.

She thought it would be easier this time around, with her heightened senses.

The first week was spent running along the same perimeter like a mad woman, picking up and following the same old dusty scent as she adjusted to the powerful weapon that was her new nose. 

Everything was over bearing. Too strong. She could smell the scent of a banshee from miles away. It took her two hours to outrun the reek, even with her nearly unbeatable new stride. 

She kept overthinking it, or trying too hard or— she wasn’t sure. But every time she felt like she was on the right track, her ears perked up at something unrelated and distracted her now short-fused brain. It would take her hours to get back on track, some days. 

It was too loud, and then when night time came it was deadly silent, and she found herself focusing the crunching of snow beneath her boots instead of the actual act of tracking. All of her senses had been dialed up five notches too high and it took her weeks to figure out how to rein them in.

By the time she’d gotten even a semblance of control, it was time for her first full moon.

The Order was ill prepared for a scenario like hers. It took months to brew a proper batch of wolfsbane, and they certainly didn’t have many skilled potioneers around. 

She apparated back to Grimmauld Place two days before the full moon. Three weeks after she’d disappeared in a fury to go ruminate in the cave where she’d nearly died.

Harry and Ron were there. Someone had probably told them the dates, and she wanted to be mad that she was made out to be such a child— so fragile and broken from this stupid werewolf bite, as if she hadn’t been in shambles for years at this point. 

She  _ wanted _ to be mad— but then their arms were wrapped around her aching body and she could hear Ron’s soft sobs— not because she was broken, but because once again they were confronted by the mortality they all shared. It was more delicate than Hermione could ever be, and she knew then, that they were there for themselves.

Neither boy tried to talk her out of her plans to pursue Malfoy. They all three sat on the floor in front of a fire, and planned out the best ways to implement Hermione’s transformation.

“It could be nearly half a year before we brew a working batch of wolfsbane,” Harry said, eyeing the parchment sitting in front of Hermione with a furrowed brow. “It’s not something we should even discuss as a possibility at this point.”

Hermione listened with a stiff back and glazed over eyes as she flipped through book after dust covered book explaining werewolf transformations second by second. She devoured every detail, storing it at the front of her mind and attempting to process it, until her hands were shaky and her breaths were shallow. 

Ron pulled her attention away from the books, but she waved him off. She didn’t feel anything. Not a single emotion about how much pain she’d be in, or how they had no solid plan to store her and make sure she didn’t cause any bodily harm. She wasn’t alarmed, or anxious. She just… felt nothing.

They weren’t able to properly enchant a room in time for Hermione’s first transformation. They portkeyed her in the middle of a forest— so dense sunlight couldn’t be seen through the thick line of trees— with a First Aid kit and a hug goodbye.

She didn’t react as she waded through the thick tree stumps, looking for the best place to hide her gear. She just counted her heartbeats, starting over once she reached one hundred. 

Only when she awoke the next morning, feeling achey and drenched in loneliness, did she realize how numb and unresponsive she’d become in the days prior.

Emotions flooded her system so forcefully her head pounded. She felt the dull pain of waking up alone and the sharp slash of grief for the life she’d envisioned.

But above all, she felt the roar of anger that had been sitting and waiting for the proper opportunity to make itself known. It warmed her skin and sped up her heart. She got up with the scent of Malfoy on her nose and his grey eyes piercing her memory. They woke her up, made her stand and  _ finally,  _ she found herself honed in, ready to hunt him down and  _ take what she wanted. _

Her legs shook beneath her as she traversed through the woods, searching for the spot she’d hidden her wand. When she made it to the spindly tree root and grabbed her stuff from beneath, she had nearly turned away before something bright caught her eye.

She stepped back and pulled it out. On the first-aid kit, written in Ron’s scratchy handwriting, was a yellow sticky note.

_ Please don’t forget to use this. _

Hermione surveyed herself for the first time. Her clothes were in tethers around her midsection and thighs. Her forearms were black and blue, and from what she could see— well, they were twisted in odd directions at several different spots. 

She took a deep, cleansing breath and threw herself to the frozen forest floor and began healing her visible injuries. Her wand hand shook violently. A sob escaped her lips and tears slipped from her eyes and quickly froze to her cheeks. 

Inside, she could feel herself being pulled to a specific location. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever been there, and she couldn’t  _ explain  _ the sensation that was persuasive enough to convince her that Malfoy would be on the other side, naive and unaware of her approach. 

She reached into the bag and pulled out a fresh pair of jeans and a thick jumper. She ripped her ruined clothes off and quickly replaced them, refusing to look down at her bruised and battered body. 

Once she was done, she pulled her hair to the side and began to braid it along the same scar Malfoy had healed all those weeks ago. 

Her blood began to flow quickly once more as reminders of where she was and  _ why  _ played on repeat in her mind.

She saw Malfoy’s concerned gaze from that night, his conflicted face as she pulled away and redressed herself. She couldn’t put the pieces together, couldn’t rationalize why he’d heal her just to sign her deathnote a few days later. It made  _ no sense. _

She spun on her heel, appearing in a new spot of the woods that was much less thick. She felt the sunshine as it landed on her skin, further warming her already burning hot skin. 

Not far down, she spotted a glamoured cabin. Malfoy’s scent emanated from it and her blood rushed under her skin. Her feet carried her forward, and she was running before she even had a plan in her head. 

She didn’t bother taking down the wards, ripping through them and wincing as little pinpricks erupted on her skin. 

Malfoy was fumbling for his wand when she lunged for him. 

His back hit the wood floor with a smack. Hermione’s hands were at his throat before he even made a sound. 

Her grip tightened as his arms raised and his fingers scratched at her shoulders. Her teeth cracked under her clenched jaw and she moved her knees to squeeze against his rib cage. 

Her heart was pounding in her chest and she’d broken out into a cold sweat. Malfoy was sputtering below her and the sound was like sweet tunes in her ears. 

She could feel her fingernails sharpening into claws and a vision of slashing the smug look off his face passed behind her eyes. The sight gave her a flush of satisfaction. 

She released her hands from his throat, lifted one above her head. Malfoy shut his eyes as she brought down and swiped—

Her claws disappeared as soon as they grazed his skin. They both froze, Malfoy still and unwatching, and Hermione with a furrowed brow. She raised her hand again and her claws reappeared. She threw her hand down, quicker this time, but the claws still retreated as soon as the warmth of his skin met her fingertips. 

Malfoy pinched an eye open as she let out a scream of frustration. He grabbed her by the hips and flipped them over knee jabbing into her stomach hard enough to make her gag. 

He punched her in the face and Hermione’s mouth filled with blood. She spat it at him and threw her hips up to toss him off of her. 

She was stronger now, much more than before and even stronger than him now. He flew into the wall, hard enough to crack the wood paneling and land onto the floor in a motionless heap. Hermione stayed on the ground for a few moments, staring at his body upside down and sucking in deep breaths— waiting for Malfoy to get up because  _ he always got up.  _

It took ten breaths before she realized she’d knocked him unconscious. She flipped over then and crawled to his lifeless form. Her claws scraped against the ground but as soon as she reached for him, they retreated once more. She tilted her head in confusion. 

She tried once more to choke him, placing her hands in the same spots where bruises were already blooming. 

Her hands held on for thirty seconds before a burst of her own magic flew her five feet backwards. 

She pushed off the ground and into a sitting position, feeling as the panic enveloped her. 

She couldn’t kill Malfoy. 

He began to rouse then, but Hermione was gone before he’d opened his eyes. 

\--- 

She apparated to Grimmauld Place before her mind could even begin to put the pieces together. There was no one there besides Fred, and she pointedly ignored him as she rushed to the library, running to the section where she’d stashed all the informational werewolf texts. 

At the time, she’d mostly been interested in the paragraphs on transformation. What it felt like, what it would do to her mind, and if there was anything besides wolfsbane that could lessen the symptoms. 

Now she rushed to the dozens of books, tossing them aside as she searched for a specific text she’d merely glossed through. By the time she reached the correct paragraph, her breath was coming hard enough to billow against the pages. 

_ Werewolves and Their Packs  _

It had seemed insignificant at the time. Hermione had no intention of joining a pack and she figured the less she knew about how to give  _ in  _ to those instincts, the easier they’d be to ignore. 

But still, she couldn’t help herself in the pursuit of knowledge and she’d quickly gone through and searched for pertinent details. 

Inside, she’d found a bolded section titled,  _ Unkillable Humans and Their Pull.  _

Hermione hadn’t concerned herself with this section at the time. But now, she found herself flipping furiously through the pages until—

She stared blankly at the page, trying to absorb the information but only seeming to understand certain words that jumped out at her. 

Mate. Paramour.  _ Bonded.  _

Hermione slammed the book shut and threw it into the wall. 

\---

She staked out at Grimmauld Place until her next transformation. 

She was hiding. She could admit that to herself, and she could even admit it to Fred when he commented on her prolonged stay. 

But when Ginny showed up, covered in dirt and grime, declaring her take down of Bellatrix, Hermione was happy for the distraction. 

The other apparated in just a few days afterwards, when the message of Bellatrix’s defeat had reached them. Even in times of war, they knew when celebrations were necessary. 

So they toasted and cheered, and George hugged his brother for the first time since he’d been taken and presumed dead. It was a happy time, and Hermione had no trouble feigning her joy. 

“I heard some interesting information while spying on Dolohov last week,” Harry whispered. They were all gathered in one of the first floor sitting rooms, red cups in hand and alcohol flowing freely. 

“Oh?” The two were pushed off to the side, standing against the roaring fireplace, heads close together. She dropped her gaze into her full cup. 

“They mentioned Malfoy. Specifically the absence of him.”

Hermione’s head shot up. Harry’s brows were raised. 

“I didn’t— I haven’t—“ she took a deep breath. “He’s still alive, Harry. If he’s absent it’s strictly due to something else. I’ve been at Grimmauld since the day after the full moon.” 

Harry narrowed his eyes at her, tongue poking into his cheek. 

“Why are you—“

“I can’t kill him,” she blurted. She gripped her cup hard enough it crumpled together, breaking the plastic. Her warm beer spilled down onto her shoes. 

Harry opened his mouth to speak but Hermione shook her head. 

She spent the rest of her night alone, in her room. 

\---

The next full moon was much worse than the first. The numbness she experienced the last time happened many days earlier. 

Most of the crew had left the day after their celebration, leaving her to drown in her own mind and commiserate with the thoughts that drifted but never stuck. 

Ginny tried to stay, but after a few days of Hermione staring blankly at a wall, she was reassigned to another target and encouraged to give Hermione some space. 

“She was like this last time too,” Harry whispered. They were standing outside of her room with the door shut, but Hermione’s senses were extra sharp right before the full moon and she’d heard more than one conversation she wasn’t supposed to. 

“Will she always be like this?” 

A pause. “I’m not sure. I read the books, same as Hermione but symptoms are wide ranging and dependent on the person.”

The day of the full moon, she was port keyed by Harry and Ron to the same dense forest that already caused dread and apprehension in her stomach. 

When she woke up the next morning, her shoulder was dislocated, her ankle was facing the wrong direction and she had no recollection of the night before. 

Like the previous time, the emotions that had been suppressed came flooding forward, slamming against her Occlumency walls and shattering them. She lay on the ground with her misplaced bones and aching joints for much longer than necessary. 

The loneliness hurt most of all. It sped through her bloodstream and settled deep into her being. She felt frozen over with it, even though she knew her wolf would take care of it off before any frostbite could ever kill her. 

She thought of Malfoy more than she had in the weeks leading up to this full moon. 

He consumed her thoughts. She thought about bleeding him dry and burying his corpse. She played on loop images of his blood running dry through his veins. 

More than anything though, she was plagued by visions of them fucking. Dirty, nasty trysts where he took her from behind, using him all until he couldn’t give and then demanding more. Biting, licking, sucking blood off him. 

She was mad with it. The images cycled through her head enough that she could smell his scent. It pulled her up, forced her to find the first aid kit and wand to heal her injuries. 

She was apparating towards the pull before she could think too hard about it. 

The emptiness— lack of human connection— it cloaked her like a second skin and her brain couldn’t think of any solution besides  _ Malfoy.  _

And she knew it was irrational. She knew that she wasn’t responsible for this part of her urges, that the wolf had seen something in Malfoy and deemed him… appropriate. 

Hermione didn’t understand, but she couldn’t reason with a feral beast. She could only fight— and eventually lose to the instinct to track him down. 

He was in the same cabin he’d been in the last time. If she were in her right mind, it might have caused her pause. 

As it was though, she barreled through the wards, breaking the front door down and plunging towards where he sat, on the couch. 

She scratched down his chest, tearing open his shirt and leaving shallow cuts along his pecks. 

Later, she would wonder how her wolf knew the difference between her killing intent and the  _ need  _ to harm him the same way he had her. How pain and injury had become foreplay in her twisted mind.

For his part, Malfoy spent little effort fighting back. He blocked her sloppiest punches and grabbed at her wrists when she went to choke him, but when instinct took over and Hermione pulled him in to crush her lips against his, he dropped the defensive act and wrapped his hands around the strands of hair that had fallen loose from her braid. 

It wasn’t just fucking for the sake of exploiting weaknesses, or creating ties that would eventually be the downfall for the both of them— it was like breathing life into a part of Hermione she’d been denying existence to for two months now. It gave her energy where she didn’t realize she’d been lacking, it was feeling alive and  _ able  _ to accomplish something besides self hatred. 

It was bigger than her and Malfoy, and it was more than just ripped off clothes and repressed moans. Bruises— from love bites and violent punches and it just  _ all made sense  _ in that moment. 

She brought her hands up to Malfoy’s throat once more and applied pressure, but instead of fighting and gasping, he leaned into her palms and closed his eyes, bucking underneath her. He reached down and popped the button on her pants and Hermione threw her head back.

It wasn’t like the last times— and Hermione had  _ enjoyed  _ their other trysts. But this held something new, something that was so foreign she hadn’t even realized it was out of reach before. 

Power like this shouldn’t exist. She watched as Malfoy fell under an enchantment of sorts, as his eyes glossed over dreamily and he seemed ready to give into her every demand. She watched and felt the satisfaction and need grow in her, becoming drunk on the thought of dominating and ruining and completing Malfoy in a way only she was able to. 

She pulled them both to their feet and turned around, bending over the back of the couch. She looked back at him, daring him to question her, but he was already undoing his pants and satisfaction flooded Hermione. 

When he entered, Hermione gripped the fabric beneath her hands hard enough to rip. She let out an animalistic noise that caused Malfoy to grip her hips tighter. 

She rode out the high, making demands and moving Malfoy’s hands when she felt like she needed something new. He responded enthusiastically and put up zero resistance. 

When she came, it hit her mind harder than anything. Like healing magic against a wound, she could feel her brain temporarily let go— of the pain, of her shortcomings and everything that had ever made her feel bad. She felt euphoric and light and as if she'd just personally discovered the solution to world peace. 

The high didn’t fade until she was in the midst of buckling her pants. Suddenly her head was clear and she snapped it towards Malfoy, who was sitting on the couch and staring dreamily up at her. 

“Malfoy,” she whispered, voice raspy. 

No response. 

She licked her lips, and tried again, louder this time. “Malfoy.”

He stayed silent and unblinking. Hermione’s hand twitched at her side. 

She reached down and pulled him up by the arm. He stood, looking dazed and still unspeaking. 

Hermione took her open palm and slapped him hard enough that his neck audibly cracked. When he turned back to her, his pupils were now dilated and his fingers reached towards her. 

Hermione took a step back and threw her hand out to stop him. 

“No! No— I think we’ve done enough— touching for today.” She took another step back. “Perhaps I should— go and research.” 

She flipped around and made for the front door, but Malfoy was on her heels in seconds. 

She turned on him, four different curses on her tongue and mouth open, but stopped when she saw the look on his face. 

His eyes were sunken and his cheekbones were more visible than usual. He looked— sickly. 

“Oh Godric,” Hermione whispered, bringing a hand up to cup his cheek. “How long have you been like this?” He leaned into her touch and it all felt so  _ easy.  _ She didn’t want to pull away and part of her— the sadistic, dangerous part that he embraced her feral wolf energy— didn’t want to question his one eighty in character. 

She grabbed him by the hand and pulled him back down to sit on the couch. She reached into her beaded bag sewn onto her jeans and fumbled around for her rations. 

She set some bread and cheese in his lap. He stared down at it, then back up at her. 

“Eat,” she demanded. “—please.” 

He looked at her only a moment more before reaching down and breaking the bread into small pieces and putting them mechanically in his mouth. 

“Good,” Hermione whispered. “That’s a very good job.”

Malfoy sat up straighter under her praise and Hermione reached out instinctually before pulling back and gripping her hand at her side. She stood, feeling suddenly lightheaded and foggy. 

“You keep eating and I’ll go make some tea.” She stepped away and Malfoy moved to stand until she pushed him back down. “No! You stay. I’ll just be— I’ll be right around the corner in the kitchen.”

With her orders given, Hermione stumbled through the doorway and braced her hands on the counter. 

Her breaths were coming in ragged pants and the world tilted dangerously beneath her. 

_ What had she done? _

Made Malfoy into some type of non combative, no questions asked stranger was the short answer, but  _ how in the hell  _ had she accomplished it?

Had she sealed their bond? It didn’t seem possible that something so powerful and all encompassing could be a one and done with meaningless, disconnected sex, but the more Hermione thought about it, the more she realized she knew nothing about mating rituals— or really anything about werewolves and their bonds. As soon as she’d realized what had happened with Malfoy, she’d taken all the informational werewolf texts and stuffed them in her closet at Grimmauld so she could study them in peace and without wondering eyes. 

In third year when she’d realized Professor Lupin was plagued, she’d done what little research they had at the library, but the truth was that there wasn’t much information on anything besides lycanthrope symptoms, transformations and wolfsbane brewing. 

One time, when Harry and Hermione attempted to confront Lupin about his aloof relationship with Tonks, he’d lashed out at the pair and claimed that the intricacies of werewolf courting were extremely private and personal. 

But that’s the only information she held. Her texts told nothing but vague third person encounters of what one paramour might do when another is attacked, or maybe certain extremely ill researched articles on the psyche damage done if a person met the unfortunate fate of being tied to a lycanthrope. 

But early on in her search, Hermione had realized that people weren’t interested in werewolves much beyond finding if there was a cure for the disease, or studying the beasts using inhuman methods. It was no wonder there hadn’t been many people willing to come forward and talk about their own personal experiences of being bonded. 

And now she stood, in the kitchen of the man she was supposed to assassinate, brewing a botched cup of tea while said man sat in the other room, in some sort of sex fueled haze. 

She poked her head into the living room to see Malfoy still nibbling on the food she’d given him. She turned back to the boiling kettle and placed her hands delicately against the counter, racking her brain for a solution. 

Lupin was at Shell Cottage. He’d been severely injured a few years back and was no longer able to run missions, but he still coordinated raids and defense attacks from afar. 

She hadn’t talked to him in months. Hermione wasn’t even sure if the news of her infection had reached him. 

She stalked into the room and grabbed Malfoy by the shoulders. She shook him roughly. 

“ _ Please  _ wake up, Malfoy.” He looked at her with unfocused eyes. She shook him harder. “If you don’t come back, I’m going to have to do something drastic— and possibly stupid.” 

Still, he didn’t respond and Hermione was hit with a hot wave of despair. A sob slipped between her lips and she stepped away from Malfoy. 

He was at her side in a moment, arms encompassing her and squeezing. 

After a moment, she pulled away, only keeping connected by their hands. 

“We have to go.” She tugged him forward, past his apparition barriers. “I can’t fix this, but I might know someone who can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I had already said Lupin is dead in this story, please let me know so I can go back and fix it lol


	8. Sensible

They landed on the uneven sand with a slosh. Hermione felt the freezing touch of ocean waves soaking into her boots. She turned once slowly, working to undo the glamour that hid the cottage so expertly. 

Malfoy was holding on with his arms around her neck and she staggered under his limp weight. 

“Malfoy,  _ please.”  _ She hoisted him up higher and slowly made her way to where she could see the glimmer of a false image. 

As soon as her foot crossed the barrier, she was met with a wand at her throat. 

Lupin was staring down at her with fierceness she’d never associated with his soft smile and calm demeanor. His gaze wavered once he recognized her, but his arm didn’t drop. Flickering eyes landed on Malfoy, giving him a once over. 

“What’s going on?”

“I’ve done something and I—“ Hermione readjusted Malfoy under her shoulder. “I need your help.”

He hesitated a moment, wand wavering— deciding. 

His arm dropped and he walked back towards the beach. 

“Not inside the house.”

He conjured a chair for her to drop Malfoy in and once he was sitting, chains and ropes immediately wrapped around his wrists and midsection. 

“That’s not necessary.” 

Hermione didn’t like the way he looked tied up and helpless. It reminded her of the moments before she’d realized she couldn’t kill him— limp; unconscious under a hole in the wall. 

Her fists clenched at her sides. 

“And why would that be?” Lupin asked sharply. 

Hermione could feel the presence of his wolf harshly. It put her on guard, kept the aggression in her tone when she spoke. 

“Look at him! Does that look like a man ready to sabotage and kill?”

“I thought the same thing about his sixteen year old self and look where that got us.”

She pressed her lips together and closed her eyes. 

She’d not been in the presence of another werewolf since she was bitten. She hadn’t prepared for the encounter— hadn’t been aware it would affect her so severely. 

But Lupin wasn’t family— he wasn’t  _ pack.  _

_ You don’t have a pack.  _

The voice reverberated in her head. Unfriendly. Foreign.  _ Not hers.  _

Hermione shook her head.  _ Stay out of this and stay silent or I’ll leave him here.  _

The voice disappeared. 

“I assume you know now.” She couldn’t meet his eyes. She kept her gaze planted on the sand in front of her, wondering how many hundreds of millions of grains she was standing on.

His eyes burned into her, searing a hole through her mind. 

“How long?”

“Yesterday was my second full moon.” Her throat constricted suddenly and she wasn’t sure she could get any other words out. 

From the side of her eye, Lupin deflated. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Hermione shrugged, looking out to face the ocean and crossing her arms over her chest. “I can’t say I’ve had the easiest time accepting everything that has come with it.”

“Like a mate you have the power to entrance?”

Hermione’s head shot up. Lupin stared with an intensity she hadn’t seen in years. The light in his eyes had faded long ago with his exile to the beachside. 

“I’ve had my wolf longer than I was ever without him. I know a lot more than you think.”

“Can you fix him?”

Lupin was in her face suddenly, teeth bared and wand pushing into her throat. Hermione staggered back under the pressure. 

“You have  _ no  _ idea the consequences of which you’ve just set off.” He pushed his wand further, hard enough that she could feel her pulse under the press. “Did you even think— did you even stop to research what was going on?”

“Believe it or not books aren’t exactly overflowing with information on mates and their habits,” Hermione spat back. “I happen to be one of the best researched people in the Order, something  _ you  _ should know considering how often I’ve helped you plan out raids.” 

Lupin faltered under her gaze. Hermione could feel her anger flowing into that of her wolves. 

Wanting. Fighting.  _ Challenging.  _

He took a step back and conjured two more chairs. Hermione watched him plop into his before she sat on the edge of hers. 

“Tell me everything.”

So she did— and everything seemed to encompass a lot, once it was all laid out. From her plans to seduce Malfoy— which brought a blush to her cheeks, even though Lupin stayed stone faced and unreadable through the entire story. 

She mentioned the opportunity to kill him  _ finally  _ having come under her new strength and anger— and her wolf’s inability to follow through. 

She wanted to repress the guilt that coursed through her. She didn’t want to feel bad about killing Malfoy. She just wanted to be done with it. 

“You can’t kill your mate.”

“Obviously,” Hermione scoffed. She was staring at her fingers, laced in her lap tight enough to turn the tips white. “And obviously I made a— a miscalculation with my indiscretions because now he’s…” she waved at where he was sitting, unmoving or speaking. 

Lupin switched his eyes from Hermione to Malfoy with pursed lips. Hermione shifted under the uneasiness of his stare. Eventually, he spoke. 

“Your  _ indiscretions,  _ as you so eloquently put it, are not what caused this state.”

Hermione tilted her head to the side, at least three questions poised on the tip of her tongue. Lupin carried on before she could voice any of them. 

“It’s called a haze, and it’s not uncommon for werewolves and their mates to experience them in a seesaw effect.”

“Meaning?”

“Do you feel different before the full moon? A bit checked out, perhaps?”

The pieces clicked together in Hermione’s mind. “A wave of numbness that I don’t even notice until after I’ve transformed.” 

Lupin snapped his fingers at her. “Exactly. As for your partner,” his eyes flitted to Draco. “His haze will happen afterwards, in order to comfort you when you return, hungry and desperate.”

Hermione shook her head. “How is this sack with no brain cells supposed to make me feel better?”

“Werewolves are animals, no better than foxes or dogs at that point. When they take over it temporarily alters the brain chemistry. We’re more feral after a full moon, more likely to give into instincts and disregard others when they object.”

Hermione stared with her mouth open, thoughts swirling like a deep fog over the seaside. “The haze isn’t to protect me… it’s—“

“For them, yes. Both the numbness that strikes you and the  _ cooperativeness  _ they experience afterwards.” 

Hermione stared at Malfoy with a furrow to her brow. She repressed the urge to reach out to touch him— to shake him awake so he could realize what he’d done— what he’d caused. 

“How long will it last?”

Lupin paused, and Hermione knew he was assessing them closely, trying to ascertain how deep this went.

“The more you’re together, the easier it will all be. Werewolves are extremely territorial and clingy. Mates are a predisposed symptom of lycanthropy. Once a person is infected they’ll spend time searching, longing for one.”

Hermione scoffed, sarcasm bitter in her tone. “I didn’t even have a chance to yearn.”

“Mates are like pain killing draught for a serious injury. They can’t fix you, but they can help ease the stress on your body.”

“That’s barbaric,” Hermione bit out. 

“So are you, now.” Lupin leaned forward. “Tell me, did you even think about any other position? Or did you just have one thing on your mind?” He stuck his lip out in a sneer. “You’re still thinking about it, aren’t you?”

Hermione pulled back and stood, crossing her arms over her chest. Above her dark clouds were forming and the ocean fretted restlessly under it. 

“I can’t kill him now.”

“As your mate he’s protected. Both by your own primal urges and wizarding law.” 

Hermione turned sharply on him. 

“I can’t kill Malfoy. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t need to die.”

“If your mate dies it will drive you mad.”

“Then kill me too.” Hermione approached him and grabbed desperately at his hand. “This war isn’t won if Malfoy is still a puzzle piece in it. He needs to be eliminated.”

“It’s not that simple,” Lupin said through his teeth. “You're bound by something greater and older than magic itself. You’ve found something real and alive to tie you to this earth and any shrivel of magic inside of us is  _ nothing  _ compared to the forces of nature.” 

Her heartbeat sped up in her chest. She could feel every pulse of blood as it pumped out into her body, reminding her that against all odds she was  _ alive _ . 

Her eyes flitted to Malfoy. 

Alive, in spite of what he’d planned. 

Her fingers twitched and she fought for control of her breathing. 

“I’ve lost us the war.” Hermione’s hands flew into her hair, pulling hard enough to sting. “I’ve gone and fucked myself up and because of it, this war can’t be won.”

Lupin stood suddenly, and before Hermione could even accept she was panicking, his hands were on her forearms, turning her until they were face to face. 

“You aren’t the only one changed by this bond. Malfoy, once he comes to, will have his own urges and instincts he won’t be able to repress. He’ll be inclined to follow and protect just as much as you.”

“That’s— that’s disgusting.” Hermione pulled away and began pacing. “All choice has been taken away from us and we’re supposed to just accept it?”

“Bonds as old and ancient as these are more powerful than we can wrap our heads around. You see it as lack of choice and coercion, but the universe has  _ brought you together  _ because he’s your best match. Even without the wolf there to show— to demand it, that would still be true. There’s power in that, power you can find together if you search and let it happen.”

Hermione shook her head. “Don’t try and force your deluded sentiments on me.” She wanted to take off and pummel the closest person that wasn’t precious to her. The anger she had— that her wolf was enhancing— bubbled up inside of her, threatening to suffocate. 

“You sought him out, did you not?” Lupin took two steps closer to her. “You had your chance to resist— to deny. But you gave in. And you will each time. And with each cave in, the bond will become stronger.” He was right at her now, towering over her with both his height and words. “You’ve set this in motion. It’s too late to not follow through.”

Hermione grit her teeth and turned her head to the side obstinately. 

They were silent for a while, just the sounds of the ocean waves slapping the shores as Hermione organized her thoughts. 

“Will he remember this? Any of what has happened since his haze began.”

Lupin lifted a shoulder towards his ear. “It’s hard to say. It’s different for everyone.”

Hermione turned towards Lupin, eyes hard and closed off. 

“We need a plan. And I’m not asking in reference to Malfoy because—“ she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I mean I need to know how I can help the war effort from here on out.”

Lupin said nothing, but began walking back towards the cottage. The ropes around Draco fell off and he slumped forward in the chair. 

“We can discuss it inside.”

\--- 

Their  _ discussion _ was nothing more than a glorified shouting match, at which Lupin spouted off facts about mates Hermione pretended to not care about while insisting she needed to be sent back out to kill a new target. 

By the time Hermione was stomping her way up the stairs to the bedroom they’d dropped Malfoy in, her hair was sizzling with anger and her claws refused to retract. 

Malfoy was sitting up in bed, hands magically bound to the mattress and feet planted firmly on the ground. His eyes were lucid.

Hermione gasped, feet stuttering beneath her. 

His gaze met hers. Angry.  _ Raging.  _

“What,” he seethed through clenched teeth, “ _ is going on _ .”

She wished she could return his anger. She wished she could scream and spit and fight just like they used to. 

But visions of pinning him to the mattress and riding him filled her head instead. 

She turned towards the dresser and began taking out her braid, avoiding eye contact. 

“What do you remember?”

Malfoy ignored her. “Where have you brought me?”

She clenched the wooden drawer she was about to rummage through. She didn’t think she’d  _ missed  _ Malfoy’s condescending tone. 

And maybe she hadn’t. But her body shuddered under his dark tone anyways. 

“Answer my question,” he demanded, as if she were one of the minions below him, pruning to do his bidding. 

“Do you remember the cabin?” She turned towards him, reminding herself to keep her hands loose at her sides and her shoulders relaxed. 

“I don’t intend to play your stupid games, Granger.”

“Malfoy I swear if you don’t  _ listen,”  _ a vision of her hands wrapped around his throat popped into her head and she squeezed her eyes shut against the intruding thoughts. 

“Granger?” His voice came from a distance, as if on the other side of a thick door. There was a strain to it— a hint of concern, if Hermione didn’t know any better. 

“Just— just be quiet for a minute.” Her heart was pounding and there was a bead of perspiration running down her temple. 

Lupin had warned her about this, of course. 

“The haze is there for a reason,” he’d said, sipping from a glass of fire whiskey. “You might be against it on principle, but the wolf will want to use it.”

Distantly, she heard a growl of approval. She ignored it, opting for a sip of her own drink. 

“Just as I have to learn to live with it, then it must learn there are some things I won’t compromise on.” She lifted her drink to her lips once more to find it was empty. “Taking advantage of a man so intoxicated on werewolf pheromones he won’t speak is one of them.” 

Lupin’s eyes searched her face. Hermione tried to hide anything that might make her vulnerable. 

“Animal instinct is stronger than reason. You’ll pay the consequences of not listening to it. And Malfoy won’t be able to hide behind the haze then. He’ll be forced to suffer through whatever demented acts gets your wolf off. You’d be doing him a favor, really, if you just got it over with now.”

Hermione glared with her arms crossed over her chest. “I’m not having this conversation anymore. Now pull out the maps and let’s get started.”

“Granger.” She opened her eyes to see that she was now towering over him, just inches apart. She took two large steps backwards. 

“I’m sorry— I didn't mean to crowd you.” She searched for that gut wrenching anger she’d been experiencing for nearly three months now. She was finally here, finally able to rip him out and make him suffer the same way she had been. 

But she found nothing except an insufferable, feral hunger to tear his clothes off. 

Malfoy’s cheeks were flushed and he squirmed uneasily on the edge of the bed. Hermione bit her bottom lip. His eyes followed the motion, hooded. 

“No!” she scolded, turning around until she was facing the door opposite the bed. “No, this  _ cannot—“  _ her thoughts floated around in her head like several balloons caught in a windstorm. Nothing could stick except for the fact that Lupin had been  _ wrong.  _

Malfoy wasn’t looking at her like he was frightened. He didn’t need the haze to take himself through her insatiable needs. 

He wasn’t going to fight against her or ask her to stop. 

“You’re not making this easy,” she bit out, eyes closed and hands raking anxiously through her hair. 

“I’m glued to a bed, Granger. I’m incapable of doing anything besides staring.”

“Well, stop staring then!”

“You want me to shut my eyes?”

“I want you to leave me alone so I can think!” She turned on him and threw her hands in the air. 

After a moment of silence, wherein Malfoy kept his eyes glued to the ceiling and Hermione finally managed to pull her pulse back to a somewhat normal level, she pulled up a chair and sat several feet from him.

“What do you remember?” she asked again. 

Malfoy stared for a moment longer at the ceiling, perhaps gauging her mood, or maybe deciding if he should argue against her point again. 

“You came barging into my cabin and we were fighting. You threw me into a wall and when I woke up you were gone.”

Hermione stared. Her hands gripped at the wooden seat of the chair tight enough that it cracked. She could feel her breaths speeding up again. 

“Malfoy that— tell me you’re joking.”

“Am I in a position to make jokes?” He gestured to his stuck hands and then back to her using a flick of his head. “I imagine if I said anything out of line you’d beat me to a pulp.”

Hermione’s spine straightened. “Please don’t talk about such things right now.” She swallowed against her dry throat. “Malfoy… that was a month ago now.” His eyes widened before falling back into an expression of indifference. “Are you sure there’s nothing else?”

Malfoy opened his mouth, then shut it. It was silent long enough for Hermione’s nerves to set in. 

“No,” he eventually said, voice unnaturally even. “I remember walking to the sink to wash the blood out of my hair, but after that— nothing.”

Hermione let out a shuddering breath. The guilt she felt— the pain of knowing she’d done this to him— was as overwhelming as it was unexpected. It blended with her anger and self righteousness that claimed he’d deserved this— he’d  _ earned  _ his pain and memory loss. 

Because she couldn’t rationalize the two parts of her as separate anymore. They combined to form something she’d never experienced before, something that curled around her conscience and sank into her bones. It made her want to throttle and comfort Malfoy all at once. She wanted to punch and hit and bite and mark and  _ claim _ . 

“Do you know?” she asked instead. Her voice was much steadier than she felt. 

Malfoy met her eyes then, cold steel thrusting through her heart. 

“You were supposed to die.”

“You’re a coward,” she spat. “All that talk, all that fight and you send a werewolf after me to finish the job.”

“I’m not an idiot, you know.” He leaned forward, teeth bared. “I know what you were doing with your little innocent act. With the seduction and—“ he faltered, for just a moment.

“And you thought you were immune.” Hermione wanted to raise an accusing finger, but she could feel her hands trembling and she didn’t want him to know. “But you weren’t. It was working.”

Malfoy sat back, head turning towards the closed window. 

“You were supposed to die.”

“And once again, you underestimated my strength.”

To that, he said nothing. All the fight seemed to drain out of him, his shoulders slumping and for the first time Hermione considered his guilt— did he have any? Did he know where it came from?

“You seem to know much more about my memory loss than I do,” he said, turning back to her with hard eyes. “So go on, what have you done to me?”

Hermione faltered. She stood and walked to the doorway. Wanting more distance because suddenly his scent was overwhelming, filling the room and giving her mind an intoxicated glow. 

How was she supposed to deliver the news? It was one thing if this had happened to someone she loved— or tolerated, at the very least— but Malfoy? She wasn’t sure she could bear his rejections anymore than she could his acceptance. 

“Do you feel it,” she whispered, still staring at the wood paneling of the door. “Do you feel it, right now?”

Fabric rustled as Malfoy shifted on the bed. 

“Quit being mysterious, would you? Just tell me what it is I’m supposed to be looking for.”

She undid his bindings with a flick of her wrist and suddenly she was pressed to the door with Malfoy’s body cloaked over hers and his breath hot on her neck. 

“That,” she whispered between pants. 

It was over as quickly as it started. He was five steps back by the time she turned around.

“ _ What have you done to me _ ?” His voice was laced with anger and panic, imitating a cornered animal. Hermione laughed at the irony. 

“If you could have just bucked up and tried to kill me yourself we wouldn’t be in this position.” 

“You’re not worth the scum under my shoe. Do you really think I’d waste my time with such antics?”

“You spent the past year fighting me up and down England. I will not buy your sorry excuse.”

“Fighting because it was what I was ordered.” He closed the distance, suddenly towering over her, bending his head down close enough that she might step back if she didn’t know better. “To distract and fool you— you daft witch that thinks she knows everything but is  _ constantly  _ failing at seeing the bigger picture. Who honestly thought she could survive if I wanted her gone.”

He stepped in again and his knees bumped against hers. She could feel his warmth radiating off in tandem with his anger. 

“I could have crushed you, if I wanted. At any time, with a mere snap of my fingers you would have ceased to exist.”

Hermione glared up at him, poking a finger into his chest. “ _ I  _ survived your assassination attempt, in case you’re forgetting. I’m alive and standing right in front of you, stronger and deadlier than you could ever dream of.”

And the implication was there, she realized. That maybe he could have snapped his fingers and demanded murder— and maybe he’d even been given permission to. 

But she hadn’t died— and she wondered how shocked he'd truly been. 

He faltered under her stare, hesitating long enough for her to notice his pupils were blown and his breaths were heaving. 

She raised her hand and placed it on his chest, marveling at the way his eyes squeezed shut and his muscles drew tight. She could feel them pulling under her palm. 

“I’ve heard rumours that you’re the best Occlumens next to Tom himself,” she whispered, eyes drawing slowly from his chest up to his face. “I can see you doing it now. Tell me,” she swept her hand slowly up, resting it in the curve of his neck, her top two fingers touching bare skin. “Are you capable? Can you place these emotions in a little box and move on?”

She leaned in closer, nose skirting his and she reveled in the way his breath hitched. 

“Can you resist the pull of my wolf? The very thing you sent to take me down and ruin me.” 

He was stock still, one hand on the wall beside her head and the other clenched in a fist at his side. She could practically see his mind moving— forming the thoughts and temptations into bite size pieces for his mind to store away. 

She didn’t move until the crease between his brow began to fade away, when his breathing evened out and some semblance of calm was present. 

She brought her other hand up and fisted it in his hair. Malfoy’s eyes flashed open then, dark and heedy, asking but not demanding. 

Clouded. Targeted. Not himself. 

Hermione shoved him away and turned to the side, gathering herself. 

“So now that we have that settled,” her voice was shaky. It was a compromise she gave him— that he wasn’t the only one holding back. “Can we please sit down like adults and discuss this.”

Malfoy didn’t say anything, but he walked back to the bed and set himself lightly on the edge. He wouldn’t meet her stare. 

“What do you know about werewolf— attachments?”

Draco scoffed. “Is the word mate forbidden in your vocabulary?”

“No!” She wanted to stomp her foot like a child. She wanted to  _ be  _ a child, eleven years old and finding out about magic. Feeling like nothing could ever bring her down. “I’m trying to be delicate here.”

“For me or for yourself?”

“For the wolf.” Hermione paused. “It’s not stable. Words like that set it off.” 

“Do you mean she?”

“No—“ Hermione furrowed her brow. “I don’t exactly know how to— I’m not sure.” She felt small all of a sudden. Vulnerable. “It— it doesn’t talk a lot. And when it does I don’t exactly get the sense that it’s female, but…”

“But it craves male sensibilities?”

Hermione huffed. “It just seems less like animal instinct at that point. I thought the mates and haze would be about reproducing, but now I’m not so sure.”

“Haze?” Malfoy leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. He looked calm and relaxed, but Hermione knew better. 

“It— I owe you an apology.” The words burned on the tip of her tongue. “When I visited you after my very first full moon, it must have set off your haze. And when I didn’t stay— when I left you bloody and unconscious— I think it did something to the part of us that’s linked.” She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “The wolf and you, that is.”

“Why would it do that?”

“I don’t know the logistics of any of this. But I talked to Remus and I know that after the full moon you’ll feel some effects— like the memory loss. Maybe you could talk to him about the specific details. I just—“ she huffed a breath and tried to collect her thoughts. 

“I’m sorry. If I had known that you’d spend an entire month sitting there brainless then I wouldn’t have left.”

Malfoy let out a dry sound. “Don’t go getting sentimental on me now, Granger.”

“This ain’t about you,” she snapped. “This is about making sure I maintain my humanity, despite what you’ve tried to take from me.”

“You could have just died.”

“I have unfinished business here. So this is the life I’m living until the war is finished.” 

They were silent for a while, and Hermione’s stomach twisted tighter the longer she put off the end of this conversation. 

“There is one more thing,” Hermione licked her dry lips. “Your haze… it’s a state meant to make me more tolerable, and you more pliable. And— and I think that’s wrong.” She held her breath. 

Malfoy narrowed her eyes at her. Suspicious. Unsure. 

“And— and if I’d have known— had taken the time to take in your state and researched properly what our connection would do— then… then I wouldn’t have taken advantage the way I did in the cabin yesterday.” 

Hermione dropped her eyes to the floor. “I’m sorry. I won’t let my judgement slip like that again, I can assure you.”

She was opening the door and running down the stairs before she could even think about it, calling up behind her. 

“I’m just going to fetch Lupin for you.” 


	9. Icy

For the first time since Hermione landed on the shores of Shell Cottage, Lupin seemed to take mercy on her. When she’d come down the stairs, sputtering and flustered, he’d shot her a pitying glare and ascended the stairs himself.

When he came down an hour later, Hermione was four heavy pulls of firewhiskey straight from the bottle deep and her nerves were just as frayed as her now fading sobriety. She had just been about to unscrew the cap for a fifth when she heard footfalls. Heavy. Announcing their presence. She shot up on his approach, tensing when she spotted Malfoy trailing behind him.

Lupin threw something at her and she caught it with her free hand. She brought it to her face and stared blankly.

“A set of keys for the cabin you’ll be going to.” Lupin snatched the bottle out of her hand and reached for two glasses. “Can’t be housing Death Eaters here, for obvious reasons.” He handed Malfoy a heavy pour and drank deeply from his own cup. Hermione stared on with her mouth hanging wide. 

“Am I missing something here?” she asked, louder than needed, as the other two boys sat on opposite sides of the table, completely unaffected. 

Lupin raised his head from where it hung with his elbows on his knees. “You asked me to help Malfoy. This is what we came up with.”

“I’m sorry, was I supposed to be down here preparing dinner while the big boys made plans on my behalf?”

“Wouldn’t eat anything you cooked even if we are bonded,” Malfoy muttered.

She pointed a finger at him. “You, shut up.” She rounded back on Lupin. “I’m supposed to be getting back into the field.”

“You’re too unstable—”

“ _ Unstable?  _ I was getting along fine without you and if it wasn’t for this— this—” she gestured wildly to Malfoy. “— I had him! He would be dead if this wolf wasn’t so  _ deluded—” _

Lupin sprang up, stepping closer and pointing an accusatory finger at her. “You’ve been running on pure adrenaline since you were bitten and had anyone higher up than  _ Fred Weasley  _ been informed then you would have been immediately removed.”

“No one knew because there was  _ no one around.”  _ Hermione raked her fingers through her hair, yanking angrily at her curls. She was dizzy, the alcohol buzzing through her veins and anger burning in her chest. “We’ve been sent on these wild goose chases, with no way to reach out and contact if something happens—”

“ _ This is not up for discussion! _ ” Lupin towered over her suddenly and Hermione cut off, fear slicing through her like a knife through hot butter as his voice deepened into something inhuman. There was only the sound of her ragged breaths as Lupin pinched the bridge of his nose, attempting to gain some control back. After a moment, he spoke, softer this time. More like the man she remembered.

“Werewolves do not get along. If you stay here, we’ll continue to argue like this until one of us inevitably resorts to violence. Once that happens, I’m not sure we’d be able to control ourselves until the other was dead.” He shut his eyes and turned away. 

“I don’t want to stay here,” she whispered, heart rate calming. “I want to fight.”

Lupin spun around, a look of compassion and understanding filling his eyes. “You fought! You fought the hardest battle and won, don’t you see?” He grabbed her by the elbows and squeezed lightly. “With Malfoy here, connected to you, we have everything we need to take down the Death Eaters.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed and she opened her mouth to voice her confusion, but Lupin talked over her. 

“I know you don’t understand this bond yet, but just as you can’t kill him, he will not be able to resist the compulsion to follow you and  _ keep you safe. _ ” He leaned back slightly. “Eventually, the secrets he’s keeping will come out. And we’ll be ready.”

Malfoy cleared his throat, but Hermione shooed him. Lupin continued. 

“You are the key. You need to foster this bond, if not for you, then for the rest of the wizarding world.”

“I’m right here, you know.”

Lupin’s head snapped back towards Malfoy. “That’s part of the beauty of this, isn’t it? That you’re here, ready to disagree.” He eyed Hermione and apprehension stirred in her stomach. “But it doesn’t matter. Because nature and compulsion and instinct will take over.” He snatched the keys out of her hand and shook them less than an inch from her face. Her ears rang as the keys clinked together. 

“Your fight isn’t over. But you’re retired from field duty.”

Hermione studied his face, searching for any sign that he was joking or that he’d lost his mind— but he seemed stable and serious. This… this was the plan he’d come up with and he was  _ all in.  _

She turned to Malfoy. 

“You don’t have anything to say to this?”

“You’ve left me with no choice.” He raised his wrist to show a tracking device around it. Easily removed, if one was okay with exploding into several pieces. “If I leave, then you’ll continue to find me. I may be stubborn, but I’m not stupid.” Hermione furrowed her brows, mouth poised open to disagree, when Lupin squeezed her elbow lightly. She snapped it shut. “Watching you try to fuck an answer out of me is just for entertainment’s sake.”

Her heart fluttered at the thought. She wished it hadn’t.

Her lips felt dry and suddenly she wanted to chug an entire bottle of cheap firewhiskey. The churning in her stomach felt like the only real thing in the world— she yearned for the burn in her throat. 

Lupin pressed the keys into her hand, the sharp ridges stabbing into her palm. She closed her fingers around it numbly. 

“Go pack your things now, Hermione. It’s time to go.”

\---

A cabin with no way out. Wards so strong Voldemort himself, with his twisted soul and malicious, cheating ways, would take weeks to get past. Unlimited food stores, and only one bedroom. 

It felt like a sick joke. Like one of those dreams that was endlessly dreadful at the time, but then you wake up and you laugh, because the idea of it all was just so  _ absurd— _

The door clicked open behind her. She didn’t turn around, but continued folding her clothes with precision, tracing the creases twice over.

“Get on with it, will you? I promise a wrinkly jumper is the least of your worries. It is a turn off, but as far as  _ that  _ list goes, there are much more pressing things to worry about.” He came up behind her and tugged lightly on one of her loose curls. She closed her eyes and tried to focus. 

“For starters, you could try for a new, more flattering hair style.”

She spun around to face him, finger poking harshly into his chest. 

“Your insults fall flat when I’ve seen the face you make when you come.”

An amused smirk fell onto his lips. “Trying to shock me with vulgarity, are we? We both know that will only get you so far.”

“Do not have any expectations or misconceptions about what this is.” She zipped up her bag and shrank it, placing it in her beaded purple pocket. “Lupin might have his own ideas about what will happen at this cabin, but let me make things clear.” 

She slid her hands from the planes of his chest, up and around until they looped behind his neck. He watched, eyes hooded and shoulders stiff. She leaned in, head tilted up until her nose nearly touched his chin. 

“If I wanted to fuck the information out of you, I could have it in less than five minutes. You’re putty in my hands because of our bond, and pretending otherwise is a simple miscalculation on your part.”

His expression was unreadable, and while he took a dramatic pause before responding, Hermione actively reminded herself to keep her feet on the ground and her eyes  _ off  _ his mouth.

“If you think it so easy, then why not just do it?”

“Because I’ve sullied myself with you long enough to know it wouldn’t be worth it. There would be some trap, or a plan you’ve already set in motion.” 

She slid one arm down. Let her hand come back around and settle at the hollow of his throat. Not squeezing. She swore he leant into the warmth. 

“But still, taking you off the table and away from the Death Eaters is the biggest win the Order has had yet. And if I have to put up with your bad attitude and snarky comments while the rest of them take down your pathetic little crew,” she removed her hand and stepped back. “Then it’s probably not the biggest sacrifice I’ve made yet.”

\---

They were portkeyed in with a simple, silver ring. It looked like a wedding band. As soon as their feet landed, Hermione threw it towards the woods. It hit a ward, sizzling and popping as the area lit up blue. A warning.

Lupin knew her too well.

Her eyes stayed planted on where the ring was now nothing more than a smoking pile of ashes. “Do you honestly think there’s no way out?”

He was walking around the wards, eyes searching from the ground to the sky. “Not anything worth attempting straight away, at least.” He poked a finger at the spot where she’d thrown the ring. A bright spark zapped and he stumbled back, shaking out his hand. “Fucking hell, is that  _ necessary?” _

He brought his finger up to his mouth and sucked. She imagined it hurt. She wondered if the cool saliva washing over the burn was soothing, or if it added to the sting. She could picture his tongue wrapping around it, sucking, pulling it deeper into his mouth—

She only realized she’d been watching too long when he lifted his eyes to meet hers. 

She cleared her throat and looked around. “Are you planning on it? Attempting to get out?”

“That’s what you expect of me, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know what to expect of you.” She folded her arms over her chest. It was windy. She suspected they might have been placed high up in the mountains. A flash of full moons and first aid kits passed behind her eyes. “You keep surprising me.”

“It’s not intentional.”

She tilted her head to the side. He wasn’t looking at her, still walking around and observing the wards. “No?”

“No,” he raised his wand and fired a shot of green at the sky. It fizzled out about a hundred feet up. “I don’t sit around and think about the ways in which would best annoy you.”

“No, I imagine your type of annoying comes very naturally.”

“Instinctually, would you say?”

She turned on her heel and headed for the porch stairs. 

“It’s not a cursed word, Granger.”

“No, but you only seemed inclined to bring it up when you want to mock me.”

“I always want to mock you.”

“What do you want me to say?” She spun around once she reached the top, hand on the door knob but she couldn’t stop herself. “That you won? Because you did, didn’t you? You finally got one over on me.”

He was far away, and she could only see his outline, even with her enhanced vision. This far away from the full moon it was harder to hone into those…  _ natural  _ abilities. 

“I did win, didn’t I?” He stepped forward, coming closer to the porch light. She could see his face, carved out of anger. “I got you to commit some of the  _ lowest  _ acts a woman could, and then, to top it all off,  _ I  _ was the one that turned you into a creature. Even lower than your previous status.” He smirked, and it was so painful to see it was the same one he’d thrown out while they were more civil— sitting around and not drinking poisoned tea, arguing until their words melted into moans. “So yes, I’d say I won.”

“It’s deluded that someone like you could possibly find victory in sleeping with a  _ mudblood.  _ That’s a bit ironic, is it not?”

“What do you think will happen in the New World, Granger? You could put a wall with a hole in front of a man and he’d still thrust into it until he was dry.”

“So I’m good enough for your cock, but not for a wand?”

He lifted his hand in a knowing fashion. “Precisely. Was that so hard to admit?”

“How does it feel, then, to know you’re the  _ mate  _ of a werewolf?”

He rolled his eyes and turned away once more. “It feels like a waste of time.”

“Because you’re strong enough to fight it? This instinct you seem so willing to mention?”

“Because it’s you!” he screamed, temper finally exploding into the famous Malfoy rage, voice bouncing off the trees. “Because it’s you, and me, and we’re not  _ meant to be—  _ Merlin, imagine thinking that— imagine  _ being told  _ that and just—” he bunched his fists together and threw them in the air, “— and just accepting it, just blindly ignoring the fact that I can’t even—” he came at her quickly, and Hermione flinched and reached for her wand. Her other hand was on her throwing knives stowed away in her cloak. 

“I can’t even fucking  _ approach  _ you without you thinking of six different ways to take me down. So imagine thinking that there’s only one way for this to end. That we wouldn’t rip each other apart, if not physically then mentally, or emotionally or— or  _ whatever  _ we could manage.”

His chest was heaving and Hermione was frozen in place, wand still lifted and pointed at him. It was a reassurance. Even if her tongue was glued to the roof of her mouth and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to fire. 

“It’s not like I picked you.” Her voice shook and she wished so desperately that she would have just pulled out when she first was bitten. Everyone had asked her to, had  _ begged.  _ But all she could think about was Malfoy and his smug look and how  _ badly  _ she wanted to rip it off his face. “I didn’t want this.”

“Then you should have given up and  _ died in that cave _ .”

It was harsh, with a finality to it. No barring argument was needed, no points could be said to refute this. 

It was the only two options, wasn’t it? She’d felt empty before this. It had been a nagging, useless feeling, like a small headache when she hadn’t gotten enough sleep, or a crick in her back when she’d sat in one position for two long. They were annoying, but she could carry on with her day without too much complaint. 

After her bite it was— it was this  _ gnawing,  _ all consuming empty that was eating away at her sanity. She could push it off, she could even pretend it wasn’t there. Sometimes, when it was giving, it would accept her fake laughter or happy memories as sustenance. 

But mostly, it knew what it wanted. So how ironic it was that Draco Malfoy stood on the other side of the yard with a look of hatred strong enough to power electricity. 

The part of Hermione that was still in control was grateful for this. If he didn’t give in, then she couldn’t either. If he kept looking at her like— like she was the sole reason for his misery and she solely designed everything that had ever gone wrong in his life— then there was no chance of her falling down a bottomless hole.

But the other part. The larger, more feral and less logical side just wanted to know what was wrong with her. She was so hopelessly flawed— like being handed a screw when you only had a hammer and really needed a nail— and she couldn’t understand why biology and instincts weren’t working on Draco Malfoy.

“That’s fine then,” she eventually said, voice cracking. “Because I’m not dead and you— you’re a coward. And some things will never change.” She reached behind her and turned the knob finally, heading inside and leaving Malfoy out on the yard.

She thought that maybe, biology wouldn’t work on her either.

\---

She set herself up in the only bedroom and threw a pillow onto the couch for him. It was a courtesy she extended— the  _ only  _ courtesy she planned to give him. 

She didn’t want to be hostile the entire time. She wasn’t sure her sanity could manage it. If they could just— go about their time semi-normally and not talk, that would be ideal.

She’d spent months alone before this, long enough that she’d once lost her voice from lack of use. She didn’t need his company.

She wondered what would happen if he were summoned, or if he missed a planned rendezvous. 

Three days in, she got curious enough to ask.

Malfoy sneered as he pulled on a shirt, hair still wet from his shower.    


“My job was to keep you busy, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s still what I’m doing here.”

“Despite the fact that you’re a prisoner of The Order.”

He picked up his towel and ran it through his hair. Hermione began tidying the dishes in the cupboard to keep her hands busy. 

“You’re just as much stuck here as I am,” he pointed out.

“Yes,” she admitted, stacking the bowls carefully.

“And you had absolutely no say in it.”

She pursed her lips. “I take my orders, just like everyone else. It doesn’t mean I have to be happy about them.”

“Sounds like you’re no less prisoner than I am.” 

Hermione didn’t reply— simply waited until she heard the door shut behind him as he exited outside— to let her rage consume her. 

When Malfoy came in two minutes later, reaching for the cloak he had apparently forgotten to grab, she was cleaning broken shards off the ground. 

She didn’t look up at him. “Write to Lupin. Tell him we need more bowls.”


	10. Boiling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Descriptions of violence and self harm featured in this chapter

Living with Malfoy— it wasn’t good, but, admittedly, she’d had more unpleasant roommates.

Malfoy wasn’t like Ron or Harry. She was constantly cleaning up after them, or walking in on them with their—  _ manhood  _ showing. 

Malfoy cleaned his dishes as soon as he was done eating. He changed in the bathroom after he was done showering and put his dirty clothes into the hamper, where they belonged. He even, mercifully, spent most of his time outside, so Hermione wasn’t confined to the bedroom in her efforts to ignore him.

They didn’t have a ton of space in between the cabin and the wards, but it was large enough, about a mile in circumference. Enough that Hermione was able to do laps around it when the frustration got to be too much.

And there was  _ a lot  _ to be frustrated about. Mafloy might be house trained, but he was still rude. He  _ never  _ seemed to shut up. They’d gotten into their fair share of ridiculous fights. There was one involving which ways the cups should sit in the cupboard. (Hermione was adamant that the rim should face down, and Malfoy had called her a barbarian. The next day, she went to grab a glass and all of their cups were rim up. It had been a battle ever since.)

She also found it extremely annoying that he  _ never seemed to sleep.  _

He hadn’t said a thing when he was sequestered to the couch, and despite Hermione sleeping in short intervals and leaving the confines of her room often, she’d never caught him with his eyes closed. It was as fascinating as it was irritating.

But more than that, the closer it got to the full moon, the less in control she was. This was new to her. It was possibly because she’d been too focused to notice that she was constantly on edge. Now, she had nothing to do but acknowledge it. Fester in it.

They’d been at the cabin for nearly two weeks and Hermione wasn’t sure how much more she could handle. The next full moon was still a ways away— about two weeks— but everyday that drew it closer she could feel her control slipping away. She longed for her haze— for the numbness that would accompany it. The need to feel something other than fury and acute loneliness was all consuming.

She was outside, stretching after finishing her run around the wards. She stood with her back facing the cabin and legs spread out into a V as she reached her fingers towards the ground. She let her head fall down, eyes closed, enjoying the pull of her sore muscles and relishing in  _ finally  _ finding some peace. 

Behind her, a wooden board creaked. Her eyes snapped open. She stood up ramrod straight and turned, wand in her hand.

Malfoy was there, on the top step of the porch, leaning against the pole with his arms crossed over his chest.

She opened her mouth, an insult she hadn’t thought through poised on her tongue— when she noticed. 

His face was serious, a look of concentration in his eyes. He didn’t seem to notice that she’d gotten up, that she was glaring with killing intent. 

That’s when she felt it for the very first time. 

A pull. 

It was unmistakable. 

The urge to let her feet carry her over to Malfoy was overwhelming. She dug her heels into the ground to fight it, even as her stomach twisted painfully against the sharp pang of loneliness. 

She wasn’t sure if he was feeling it too— she couldn’t tell if he was feeling anything  _ at all.  _ The clouded look in his eyes reminded her of his haze.

“Malfoy?” she called out. 

From her distance, she could see his brow furrow as he pushed off against the pole. She couldn’t read him, couldn’t tell what was going through his head at that moment. The connection snapped almost immediately. Malfoy didn’t even try to make an excuse as he rushed inside and slammed the door behind him.

\---

There were more moments like that, as the week went on. Hermione began taking notes in a spare journal that she found shoved in the back of a desk drawer. She wrote down every time she caught him staring with that same blankness, anytime he seemed to come nearer with no explanation. 

Anything that felt abnormal— an anomaly that could only be explained by their bond.

She longed for the books from Grimmauld. She even wrote to Lupin, asking for them.

His reply was short. Terse. 

_ No clues. Maneuver this on your own. _

The note went up into flames in her hands, ashes falling past her clenched fists.

Malfoy, who had been reading on the couch quietly, looked up with a quirked brow.

“Bit aggressive, don’t you think?”

“I think that my personal correspondence is none of your business.” 

“There’s nothing to correspond to. You’ve just incinerated your letter.” He glanced down at the ground. “What is it, Weasley breaking up with you?”

Hermione turned to him and huffed out a laugh. “I honestly find your incompetence humorous. I’m here, trapped in a cabin with my  _ mate.  _ Do you really think I have a boyfriend waiting for me?” Never mind that there was no way to write to anyone besides Lupin. 

Malfoy threw his hands into the air. “I don’t presume to know what gets your rocks off.”

“You  _ know  _ how to get me off.”

  
Malfoy froze. Hermione stopped breathing. 

“I didn’t mean to say that.” She turned away from him and reached for her notebook, staring at the black, leatherbound cover for longer than needed. 

“What is that?” Malfoy asked, coming up behind her. “I’ve seen you pull it out more than once when I’m around.”

She pulled a quill out of the desk drawer and opened up to her flagged page. “I’m taking notes.”

“Notes?” She nodded. “On what?”

She gestured between the two of them before writing down:  _ Twelve days away from full moon. Speaking vulgarly, words coming without a passing thought of consequences. _

Malfoy read over her shoulder. “You’re tracking how you speak to me?”

“I’m tracking anomalies. Anytime something happens that could lead to—” she cleared her throat, feeling her cheeks flood. “Anything that feels sexually charged, I mark down.”

“When did you start this?”

Hermione handed him the notebook. “You can look through it, if you like. Feel free to add to it as well. This is the first time I’ve had to put any notes down about myself. I’m sure I’ve missed something.”

He flipped through the notebook silently, sometimes raising his brows or humming a noncommittal noise. Eventually, he reached towards her, fingers opening and closing in a gesture for the quill she was still holding. 

“Your eyes,” he whispered, tip scratching against the paper. “Sometimes, when I approach you too quickly, your pupils grow large.”

“Oh.” Hermione hadn’t noticed. “That doesn’t have to mean—”

“Granger, we’ve fucked enough that I know what you look like right before it happens.”

She snapped her head to him. He was still writing, eyebrows drawn together and his mouth moved, forming the words he was writing. When he was done, he looked at her.

They were standing close, heads practically together as they had both been engrossed in her findings. 

She could feel the warmth of his arm right next to her. It was bare, Malfoy having opted for short sleeves today and she wondered what it would look like wrapped around her waist, as he pounded her from behind—

They both took two steps in the opposite direction. Hermione was panting. When she looked up, his eyes were dark and his cheeks were flushed.

She turned away from him and squeezed her eyes shut. Behind her, Malfoy cleared his throat. 

“Would you like to write that down in the book?”

She shook her head, eyes still closed. “All yours.”

He retreated back to the couch, and with some proximity restored, Hermione’s chest loosened and the fog in her mind cleared. 

“I have theories about this.”

“Is it too much to hope I’ll enjoy them?”

Hermione sat down on the opposite side of the couch. “Perhaps we should set down some ground rules. To try and prevent interactions like that.”

Malfoy scoffed. “Why, so we can tempt your wolf to find ways to break them? As if it hasn’t turned me into a mindless zombie enough.”

“Do you remember? After I call your name and you break out of it?”

Malfoy shifted, sitting up and crossing one leg over his knee. “It’s… it’s not like I don’t know what I’m doing necessarily.”

Hermione raised her brows, but he waved her off and rolled his eyes. “Don’t get started, of course I’m not purposefully ogling. I’m just saying, I’m there, but I’m in a daze. And this daze, it’s— it’s so warm and comforting, and being pulled from it is like having ice shards rained on my body.”

Hermione had so many questions to ask, suggestions to make. But her body felt overheated and she longed for the winter air to cool her skin.

“I— I need to step away.” she sputtered, before nearly running outside.

It was snowing, and she thought of Harry suddenly, seventeen years old and wiping frost off his parent’s grave. Her heart twisted, wishing more than anything she could go back and tell them what she knew now. Give them advice so that they might be able to make better decisions than the ones that brought her here.

She didn’t care that Malfoy was her mate—  _ with or without the wolf,  _ as Lupin had stated. She wished she could go back to a time before she knew, before she realized that  _ this  _ was all she could ever get. There would be no happiness, no still mornings spent under the covers, kissing and exploring and  _ learning.  _

Just her, barely managing her moon cycles so that she might not accidentally fall into bed with Malfoy.

As she sat on the porch steps, staring at the three quarters full moon, she wondered if it wasn’t the most depressing realization yet.

\---

Two days later, an owl tapped at the front window. Malfoy was sitting on the floor, pouring over a piece of parchment and Hermione was sitting with her legs folded under her on the couch with a book in her hand, trying to pretend as if she couldn’t feel his quickened heartbeat. Or that he hadn’t moved his quill in over five minutes. Not even a single swipe. 

The tapping was enough to jump her to her feet, and when she saw it with a letter in its mouth, she stepped eagerly to let it in. 

It dropped the letter in her hands and stuck out its leg. A small parcel was tied there. When she’d gotten it free, the owl left. Hermione’s shoulders slumped. 

“Did you really think you’d be able to reply?”

Hermione shrugged. “I didn’t even realize I’d hoped for it.”

“You could try to trick that little charm Lupin set up.”

Hermione turned her head towards the desk, where a small letter dish sat. If either of them were to place a parchment on there, it would disappear immediately. Any correspondence from Lupin also appeared there. 

It was a neat trick. Hermione was loathe to admit she had no idea how it worked. 

She opened the letter to Harry’s familiar scrawl. Her heart picked up in her chest. Malfoy must have noticed. His head jerked up and the quill fell from his fingers. 

_ Hermione, _

_ I came back to Grimmauld to a letter from Remus. No explanations, just a statement that you’re off the rosters and a location— with strict instructions that I’m not to visit. He also explained that you wouldn’t write back. I can’t help but ask, wouldn’t, or  _ _ couldn’t?  _

_ I hope you’re well. Since it’s Remus that has done whatever this is, I’m going to trust that you’re safe.  _

_ I miss you, either way. I wasn’t sure if Remus was funding your addiction, so I sent along a gift.  _

_ Harry _

Hermione opened the parcel to find a pack of bubblegum. She grinned at the same time Malfoy groaned. 

“Blasted gum,” he mumbled. 

“Would you like a piece? It’s muggle, but quite delicious.”

He dropped his eyes and picked his quill back up. “If I wanted muggle souvenirs I’d go to a soupy market.”

“Supermarket,” Hermione corrected. 

Malfoy waved her off. Still, her good mood couldn’t be spoiled. 

\---

It was all too easy to give into primal emotions so close to the full moon. Less than a week away, she’d been spending more time in her room. Pacing. Walking back and forth the ten steps the small space allowed. Listening to her echoing footsteps. Counting her heartbeats. 

Eighty. 

Breathe. Calm. 

Seventy. Keep breathing. Sixty. 

A noise outside. Malfoy’s scent as he entered the house. 

One hundred and twenty. Feet moving of their own accord as instincts pulled her towards him. 

She’d dig her heels into the ground and her wolf would growl, furious. 

It— there were no words for the rage and hatred that raced through her mind whenever they connected. Everyday they had more communication. Not regular speech. Angry snarls. Howls that echoed through her mind and made her want to bang her head into the window until it shattered. She could use the glass, slash into her own flesh—

_ Breathe. Check your heart rate.  _

_ One hundred and sixty.  _

She’d continue her pacing. Up and down. Ten paces. Malfoy was now standing outside her door. She had, a few days ago, accepted that there was some form of an emotional bond holding them together. She was restless. He knew it. What his instincts were telling him to do, she wasn’t sure. If he came into the room now, she’d tear him into pieces. Limb by limb. Watching his face, looking for pain—

The shadow under the door disappeared. Once again, she shook herself from her violent daydreams. 

She tried to read— remembered the two weeks during Fourth Year when Lavender and Parvati had begun meditating at the behest of Professor Trelwaney. They’d gone on and on about the mental benefits of starting the day with a clear head and  _ detoxifying the mind.  _

Twenty minutes in, she’d heard a bestial laugh. 

Two minutes later, there had been a hole in the wall beside the bathroom. 

\---

She wasn’t quite sure how the argument started. Couldn’t even remember what it had been about. 

It’d had more finesse than their usual ones— no intent to insult or infuriate, like with the cups— just a raw, honest curiousness that she’d pushed too far. Until he was screaming at her and she let the rage wash over her like violent waves during a hurricane— the kind that devastated Caribbean islands. That changed the shape of the land. Flooded the mainland and killed the inhabitants with no remorse. 

She’d been sitting on the porch steps, last she remembered. Cross legged, in a short sleeve shirt and athletic shorts. 

The heat of her body had been unbearable lately. The swirling snow was appealing, as was watching it melt against her searing skin. 

Malfoy had come out at some point. They’d been talking. They did that sometimes. Harmless topics. Safe things. Like the weather, or about the meals they’d cooked. 

She was standing suddenly, wand drawn and at his throat. He was laughing, eyes wide and a maniacal grin on his face. He looked wrong. Unhinged. 

She tried to fire a spell but nothing came. It seemed even her own magic had picked a side. The wolf howled in victory. 

She threw the useless piece of wood aside. She hoped the snow buried it. Fucking traitor. 

She remembered the day in the cabin. Breaking through wards. Throwing fists. Malfoy smashed into a wall. 

She couldn’t kill him. But—

She took her fist and slammed it into his sternum. He stepped backwards on the impact, but he must have been expecting it because—

She was on her back in the snow, dodging his attacks the next instant. She’d forgotten how fast he was. Her blood thrummed to life, sending spikes of adrenaline up and down her spine as her knee connected with his stomach and he toppled over, freeing her. 

_ This,  _ she thought,  _ is exactly what I need.  _

She’d not done anything besides fight since the Battle of Hogwarts. Her stint with Malfoy at this cabin had probably been the longest she’d gone without engaging in violent, deadly attacks in years. 

He was up in an instant, pulling her to her feet by the collar of her shirt. She kicked out, aiming for his knees. He dodged to the right and grabbed for her arm, pulling her in and twisting her, until her back was tight against his front and his elbow wrapped tightly around her throat. 

“I’ll choke you to death and then spit on your corpse,” he hissed into her ear. 

Her breath stuttered, hands automatically reaching up to claw at the arm that was restricting her airway. He laughed at her feeble attempts. 

She went limp, dropping her legs from under her and wrapping one around the back of Malfoy’s knees. She used her hands at his forearms as leverage and snapped her leg forward. Malfoy, off balance, fell forward and loosened his grip. 

She flipped them around, throwing her legs over his hips and placing her hands at his chest. 

Instead of fighting back, he went unusually still. The color drained from his face and his eyes glazed over. 

Her hands were no longer planted on his chest, but wandering. Up his arms, chilled from the air and snow. Over his collarbones, which jutted out from his lanky frame. 

One came and rested over his throat. Below her, she felt a twitch where her bottom was planted against Malfoy. 

Before she could think, she was moving against it. Hesitantly at first. She watched Malfoy for a reaction. His eyes were distanced, dreamy, but there was a heat in them that spurred her on. She did it again, harder this time. Her thighs squeezed at his hips and he shut his eyes. A soft breath left his lips. Lips she was now staring at. An unfamiliar sense of hunger crawled up her abdomen. 

It was unbearable. Like if she didn’t capture Malfoy’s lips right then, she might die. Perish from lack of affection. 

It wasn’t even a choice, really. He had leaned in a fraction of an inch and that was all it took. 

She moved her lips against his with a ferocity she didn’t identify with. Not on a personal level, at least. Primal instincts had taken over and she felt like she was in the passenger seat right before the car crashed. She could see it happening, but could do nothing to stop it. 

Malfoy’s tongue was in her mouth and she keened against the warmth. It wasn’t like the overheated sticky sweat that she couldn’t scrub from her skin. It was— like sitting by a fire after a long day of building snowmen. It was better. Nothing compared to the heat she felt spreading. Building. 

_ Taking over.  _

She pulled away suddenly, staggering to her feet. The effect was immediate. Her head began pounding and her vision blacked as she clawed back control. 

Her body felt like it was boiling from the inside out. She tore at her clothes, but the removal of them didn’t provide any relief. 

She didn’t know how long she was like that, agony ripping through her every vertebrae— licking up and down her spine and settling in her mind. Her head was going to explode. That was how she’d die. A victim of her own disease. 

When she came to, she was laying stomach down in the snow, with her head turned, facing away from the cabins. She pushed herself to her knees. Her hands didn’t shake— they were positively vibrating. 

A black cloak fell from her shoulders and pooled

around her knees. She looked down to find she was in just her knickers. Her stomach was discolored purple. Every inch of her body was numb. 

“You wouldn’t let me put your clothes back on and I couldn’t get you back inside.”

Hermione looked around slowly. It was dark outside, with just the orange light from the open cabin door shining through. Malfoy was sitting on the porch stairs. He wouldn’t meet her eyes. 

“What happened?”

“The fuck am I supposed to know that?”

Hermione grit her teeth, but found she was severely lacking in anger. Her bones felt heavy. She wanted nothing more than to close her eyes. 

“I’m not asking for a psychological assessment, Malfoy. How long was I out?”

“I don’t have a fucking pocket watch on me, Granger.” His hands moved to wedge in his pockets. “Do you mind telling me what that was?”

“Yes, of course, let me just pull out my werewolf bible I borrowed from the library,” she replied tersely, pulling the cloak closed around her shoulders and standing. 

“You came onto me.” It tumbled out of his mouth. His tone was prickly. Guilt, if she had to guess. 

Not his. Malfoy would not feel guilty. But the bond might. 

She spun on her heel, anger suddenly bubbling up high enough for her to react properly. “I’m housing a fucking wild animal inside me. Fighting like that isn’t just—“ she paused, closing her eyes and willing her cheeks not to heat. 

“I always knew you’d have an odd sense of foreplay.” 

Hermione tightened her fists. Fighting would get them nowhere. It might literally kill her to go through that again. 

“It’s positively primitive,” she said, casting her eyes down and fiddling with the buttons in the cloak. “But then again, so am I.”


	11. Sex Hazed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Hermione is present during her haze, unlike what we’ve seen with Malfoy (so far). She’s unable to react and feels very little.

She was sitting on the couch, watching embers from the flames crackle and snap against the old, worn stone of the fireplace. Off to the side, Malfoy slammed something down onto the coffee table directly in front of her. A glass, she thought, based on the high pitched noise. She didn’t turn to look.

“Granger.”

Her stare stayed on the orange and yellow flames as they flickered. Her eyes burned. They were still glazed over. 

His voice was there, and surely she could open her mouth to answer. 

It all felt like too much to do. So she sat, quietly. Unmoving.

A warmth enveloped her wrist. Pulling on her. Urging her to her feet. Her body slumped against the back of the couch. 

“Granger,” it repeated. Malfoy. The rumble of his deep tone reverberated through her chest, settling into herself. Strangely, it left her empty. Like it’d hollowed out the marrow in her bones to make room for itself. 

Her wrist shook lightly. Malfoy’s eyes were suddenly in front of her. His image was blurry. Unfocused. 

“You need to have some water. And food.” His eyes searched hers, a touch desperate, if she could identify it correctly. “It’s— it’s been days.”

Still, the will to respond was completely silent— locked in a box with the key missing— so she just sat, staring. Wondering howshe was so near the fire and couldn’t feel a lick of heat. 

He moved away from her, clothes rustling as he ran his fingers incessantly through his hair. She listened as his shoes tapped against the hardwood floor. 

Up. Down. Then back. Repeat. 

She lost track of how many times his body, cloaked in black muggle clothing, passed out of the corner of her vision.

“ _ Please.”  _

She flashed her gaze to where he was standing. It felt like the most exhausting thing— lifting her eyes. Like pushing a boulder up Mount Everest. Attempting to focus on his blurry image proved even worse. She strained against the urge to fall back into oblivion.

His shoulders were hunched over, face crumpled with— desperation, if she had to name it. 

The helplessness was odd. It didn’t belong on his face. He was younger, suddenly. Standing on their side during the Battle of Hogwarts, deciding if he would stay or go with his parents. 

When he’d walked away, her insides had twisted violently enough that she’d thought she might be sick. She wasn’t sure if it was pity or fury at the time. Now she knew. 

She was mad at herself. She was  _ furious  _ at him. 

He didn’t have a choice. Not a real, lasting one. 

Had the roles been reversed, she’d have done the exact opposite. It was never a debate. 

She hated him for the decisions he’d made.

Now here he was, a foot in front of her. On his knees with a cup of water held out. The ice clinked against the glass as his wrist shook. When she didn’t move, he reached for one of her hands and used his own to wrap her fingers around the condensation. She knew it must be cold, but when it touched her palm, nothing was evoked. It was patterned with little square shapes, but her hand felt empty. 

Malfoy was looking at her with a force of emotion that might scare her, had she’d been in the right mind. It was open and honest. His brows scrunched together tight enough to create little wrinkles on his forehead. His lips turned down at the edges. 

She saw a light smattering of facial hair. He must not have shaved that morning.

His mouth moved, but she couldn’t make any sense of the words coming out— like she was in a dream, and the person in front of her had the most important information to share—  _ life saving  _ stuff— but everytime they got to the relevant part, their language changed and she was left asking them to repeat themselves, over and over until the panic took over and she woke up in a flurry of short breaths and sweat soaked sheets. 

He wrapped his hands around her arms suddenly and yanked her to her feet. She was limp. He shook her hard enough that her neck cracked. He was screaming. Spit hit her cheeks.

Still, she did not react.

“Granger, if you don’t drink the  _ fucking  _ water then I’m going to do something stupid.” He licked at his lips. “You’re smart. You hate it when people do stupid things. You like well thought out plans and perfect execution and I can assure you—” His breathing stuttered, eyes moving wildly across her face. “I’ve not thought this through and I’ve no idea how it’s going to go.”

There was a pause as he gained control of his breathing with his eyes squeezed shut. She could feel his rib cage brush against her chest, less and less with each calmer second. 

They stood there for a while, Malfoy holding her up. And her, nonresponsive.

Eventually she dropped back down to the couch and Malfoy stormed away, simmering with anger.

“Fucking  _ bitch.  _ Fucking killing herself. Where the fuck are all the people who care about her?” He was at the desk, slamming drawers open. She heard the distinct crinkle of parchment being fisted. After a moment, she spotted a quill in his quivering left hand. “Just fucking me here.”

The scratching of ink against paper filled the still room. Malfoy’s mouth was silently moving, forming around the words he was writing. 

After a moment, he stood up straight, hand at his chin. The pacing restarted almost immediately. 

_ Tap tap tap.  _

Up and down. 

His hands were in his hair, pulling lightly on one pass through. On the next, the tips of his fingers were massaging his temples. 

Eventually, he stormed over to where she sat, hunched over, with a look of venom. He stared at her for only a moment before taking the glass of water and heaving it at the wall opposite her. 

The cup broke into a million pieces, tinkering lightly as they rained to the floor. 

Malfoy’s shoulders rose up and down quickly. His panted breaths swirled around the room. Echoed harshly in the tall ceilings. 

A crack of apparition sounded from the front door behind her. 

Malfoy was gone before she could find the strength to lift her eyes to the spot he’d been standing in. 

She didn’t feel fear. She couldn’t muster up curiosity or questions. 

She felt nothing. 

The front door creaked open, bringing with it a gust of wind and two familiar voices. 

“— fucking lunatic if you think I can get her out of this.”

“You can and you will.” Lupin’s voice. Strong and commanding. The voice he used when giving orders. 

More steps, these one lighter, much more practiced and not born out of emotion. 

Lupin’s eyes were boring into hers as he crouched down in front of her body. They searched her face for a while. Had Hermione been able to, she would have pulled away. Behind his gaze— the kind, familiar one she’d been so used to associating with him before any of this had happened— she could feel its presence. 

Looming. 

Searching. 

_ Challenging.  _

Her mind and body were at war. She longed to curl in on herself— to cover her midsection and turn away. Protect the most vulnerable parts of herself. 

But she couldn’t muster up the strength, and she sat, just as boneless and blank as she’d been for two days. 

Lupin pulled away with a snap of his head. Turning to look at Malfoy, who was standing to her right. 

“She’s being punished.”

“Yes, I think that was well established three weeks ago when you dropped a fucking port key in her hands.”

“No.” Lupin laid a hand on the top of her head. “This punishment is coming from her haze.”

Malfoy was silent a moment, and Hermione could feel his glare like little pin pricks on the back of her neck. 

“Look—“ he began, walking around the edge of the couch and coming within a foot of Lupin. 

Interesting, Hermione thought. They were both so tall. Threatening in their own ways. Malfoy was all arrogance and power where Lupin was brute strength and assurance. Wand to her head, she wouldn’t be able to pick which was more dangerous. 

“I’m not going to ask for a dictionary on half breed terms or even pretend to store away whatever bull shit you’re about to spew.” He threw an arm out at Hermione. “All I  _ need  _ is for her to drink a fucking glass of water so she doesn’t keel over in the middle of the day tomorrow.”

The veins at Lupin’s neck stood out as he clenched his jaw. His teeth cracked under the pressure. 

She wondered how he managed it. To feel such strong emotions this close to the full moon. 

She was locked behind bars in her own mind. Her conscience wasn’t fighting the numbness anymore. 

“I sent you two here to work out the kinks in your bond.” He rolled his neck around slowly. “And it seems that  _ hasn’t  _ happened.” A single eyebrow raised at Malfoy. 

Draco scoffed, shifting back on his heels. His arms crossed over his chest, wand clenched tightly. “Maybe you should have put more of an effort into checking in rather than just leaving us to—“ he threw his arms at Hermione— “whatever the fuck that is.”

Lupin was over him suddenly, looming much more like a predator than a professor. 

“ _ That  _ is what her haze looks like,” he bit through clenched teeth. “Hermione’s comes before the full moon, much similar to yours  _ after  _ the transformation.”

Malfoy’s throat bobbed lightly, but his eyes were sharp enough to cut steel and he bore them into Lupin without fear or thought of consequence. It was silent for a moment, with only the sound of the opened front door blowing in the wind. 

“Her haze is a punishment?” he asked eventually. 

Lupin didn’t answer. He searched Malfoy’s face, leaning in closer as his fist clenched at his side. 

But the question was an olive branch, of sorts. 

Lupin stepped back. A shuddering breath shook his frame. 

“Like you, her haze will come every month.” He took a few steps back to Hermione, crouching down once more. She felt a pull at the back of her head as he adjusted her head to meet his eyes. 

“She’ll refuse food and drink every month?”

“No,” Lupin’s answer was quiet. Thoughtful. Like he was thinking— contemplating what to say. 

He stood then, turning away from Hermione and walking towards the desk. 

“She’s being punished. She has done something the wolf disagreed with, and now she’s suffering the consequences.” Lupin picked up a quill and held it to the dim light. Inspecting it. 

“Fucking idiot animal,” Malfoy seethed. “ _ Merlin _ , it’s killing her. And itself.”

Lupin nodded his head. “Yes, that seems to be so.”

“When is it going to let up?”

Lupin dropped the quill back on the desk and turned to Draco with a sadistic, knowing grin on his face. 

“If you do not fix this yourself, then there will not  _ be  _ a let up.”

Draco’s shoulders tensed so tight she could see his muscles move under his shirt. 

“Animal instinct puts survival above all else.” Draco’s tone was firm and sure. It held no room for arguments. As if he couldn’t imagine the type of stupidity possible for self sacrifice. 

Lupin laughed— high pitched, screeching that gave Hermione flashes of full moons. Memories she’d never previously been able to access. 

“Werewolves are not simply animals. They are mythical beings first and foremost.”

“I’d think that would make them smarter, if nothing else.”

“This is not an argument about their intelligence, but rather what they deem worth living through.”

Draco’s brow furrowed. Lupin continued on before he could even open his mouth. 

“Werewolves, historically, die rather quickly. They’re stubborn, wretched creatures that would rather perish than give into things they don’t want.”

This time, Draco didn’t even try to speak. His arms had come uncrossed at some point, and the defensive stance had shifted to a more relaxed one. His wand was held loosely in his left hand. 

“Mates weren’t there in the beginning. Werewolves fucked in circles— any partner they could get their paws on. They were reproducing at insanely high levels, but their refusal to listen to anything except their absolute  _ want  _ to not abide by any safeguard thought that floated through their head killed them even faster.”

Lupin dropped his head and gestured up and down at Draco.

“Have you heard the term ‘survival of the fittest’ by chance?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Don’t patronize me by pretending I’m oblivious.”

“Then you’ll understand when I tell you mates were part of the evolution of werewolves.”

Malfoy was resolutely silent at this. 

“You see, a werewolf has no sense of self preservation— no thought of their actions and where it might lead them. They’d walk off a cliff if they thought the fall might be worth the excitement. They’d starve themselves to prove themselves to enemies. 

“But this was killing them far too quickly. And something needed to be done.” He pointed a single finger at Malfoy— who stepped back, throat bobbing deeply. “In comes the mate— a reason to live. Something to come back for.” Lupin smiled lifelessly. “Someone to keep the wolf alive.”

Malfoy eyes were glued on the floor. Hermione could see his pulse stuttering wildly at his throat. 

“I don’t think I understand.” It was said begrudgingly. Like he wasn’t ready to admit ignorance. The thirst of knowledge had too strong of a pull. 

“A mate is for life. Chosen by nature to be the best match for the werewolf and host. Because of this,  _ you  _ are naturally going to take care of the wolf. You want them safe. You encourage it. You’ll heal them when they go too far. You’ll be there in the back of their mind when they want to make a deadly decision. Pulling them back.”

“Granger hasn’t tried to hurt herself.”

Lupin shook his head. “You’re not understanding what I’m saying.  _ You  _ keep her safe and provide emotional security. Physical intimacy that the wolf craves. She is fighting your bond tooth and nail. She’s resisting the wolf’s instincts to let the bond flow naturally.”

Draco spoke slowly. “She’s being punished.” 

His tone was like the sun rising over a large hill. Understanding shone in his eyes. 

“If the wolf cannot have you, it will not live. Hermione will not live.”

Malfoy seemed ready to flee. She recognized it in the square of his shoulders— the tense posture and tall stance of his legs. How many times had he looked exactly like that— soaked in blood and ready to pass out— before he apparated away and she was left, frustrated and alone?

“A werewolf will not keep themselves safe, but it will stay safe for their mate.”

“Granger will not accept me as her mate. There was—” Malfoy cleared his throat. “There was an incident a few days ago.” 

It was strange to see him so uncomfortable. At a loss for words. His tongue had always been quick. The older he got, the more nuanced and clever his insults became. Eventually he wasn’t just spewing bull shit from his mouth. He’d spent time—  _ years— _ learning and discovering what made Hermione tick. He had become an expert at setting her off. 

The way he knew how. 

The way he liked. 

“We are stubborn. People like myself and Hermione. Housing werewolves inside of us only enhances these traits.” Lupin walked slowly to the door, his feet scuffing against the floor. Like he was pulling himself away unwillingly. “This close to a full moon, we’re more wolf than human. Primal. Unpredictable.” Lupin met his eyes purposefully. “Dangerous.”

Malfoy said nothing. He wasn’t as vocal to Lupin as he was towards Hermione. 

“As a mate, you can reach out. Change its mind about killing Hermione.”

“I don’t know  _ how—” _

“ _ Yes you do.”  _ It came out a growl. Remus was in front of Malfoy suddenly, glaring down into his face looking like murder. Like if he moved forward another inch, he’d strike him down. 

Hermione had seen Lupin transform before— had witnessed Moony first hand. 

This was the first time she’d ever seen him break through Remuses defenses. 

“You know how,” he breathed, much calmer. “It’s instinct. If you let yourself hone into it for more than a few seconds then you’d find a solution to nearly all of the problems you have here.”

“She doesn’t want—”

“Instinct or die.” Lupin was back at the door, anger fuming around him like a fog. Leaving droplets in his wake that fell on Malfoy. “You choose.” 

“Are you not going to stay to see? To try and convince me to follow through? Does she really mean so little to you?” He sounded insulted. 

Hermione was empty and alone.

Lupin froze, hand on the door knob. “I would grovel at your feet if I thought it would make any difference.” His voice shook like the ground beneath him was vibrating. “Sirius always had Harry. They were much the same.” He dropped to a whisper. “But Hermione was mine.” He turned the knob and thrust the door open. “But still, the point stands. I cannot bring Hermione back. That lies solely on you.”

Then he was gone. 

And Malfoy stood, feet away from Hermione looking as if his body were glued to the ground. She could see the dampened sweat on his brow. The quiver in his hand as he reached to swipe it away.

He looked no closer to a solution than he had before.

Time didn’t pass the same during her haze. He might have stood there for minutes. Or days. She wouldn’t have been able to differentiate. Eventually, he picked up his feet with stiff legs and carried himself over to drop down next to her on the couch. He was close— sitting in the crack between the two cushions— but not touching her. He seemed to be avoiding any type of contact. As if skin to skin might burn him. 

“I’m not sure what the fuck I’m supposed to say.” His leg came up to rest on the couch as he turned to face her. 

Hermione was still framed the same. Sitting forward with her eyes blankly staring. 

The world spun for a moment. Blurs of color until Malfoy’s eyes intruded her vision. His hands rested on her shoulders. 

“I’m talking to the wolf,” he said. Hesitant. Unsure. 

Hermione simply stared. Malfoy’s lips pressed together. She could practically feel the imprints of his teeth on the inside of them. 

“If there  _ is  _ a werewolf in there, and I do happen to— to be your mate, then I would like to talk.” His mouth hung open. “About what happened in the snow the other night.”

As if being plucked from a dream, Hermione felt consciousness being washed over her like shards of ice. 

Her head turned to Malfoy without permission. She had a thousand things to say, whirring around in her mind like flies to honey.

Her tongue would not cooperate. Her body did not feel like her own. 

She realized, a beat too late, that she was brought back simply to watch. 

The wolf was in control. 

A passenger in her own mind. It was a violation of the highest degree— to feel everything, have opinions on it all— and not be given an option. No choice. 

Malfoy, stunned into silence by the reaction he had not expected to get, sat gaping with his mouth slightly ajar for quite some time. Long enough that the wolf raised a brow. 

“I—“ Malfoy placed a hand in the back of the couch. He leaned in closer. Examining her eyes. “Granger?”

A grin that was more teeth than lips took over her face. Slowly, her head shook. Malfoy’s shoulders tensed and the leather at the back of the couch cracked under his grasp. 

“Good.” He nodded. “This is what I asked for. What I wanted.”

His Occlumnecy shields slid into place flawlessly. The wolf might not have even noticed. 

He brandished his wand from the holster around his chest and summoned a glass of water. 

A steady hand held it out to her. 

Her throat ached and her tongue was glued to the roof of her mouth. She wanted to reach for the water. 

The wolf took it from his hands with a nod, and placed it on the table before turning back to him with her chin in the air. 

“You said you wanted to discuss something?”

It was Hermione’s voice, but the inflection was wrong. Too crisp. Too practiced. 

Malfoy flinched, eyes squeezing shut. Like he was fighting something. It took Hermione nearly three minutes to realize. 

The wolf was a Legillimens. Skilled, if the sweat on Malfoy’s brow was anything to go by. 

Not all magic was secured by wizards. Most of their abilities were stolen discoveries, actually. It was why wand work was so important. Not all of it came naturally. It needed a bridge. 

She’d never looked up the origin of Legilimency. 

His eyes opened slowly, almost sleepily, as he broke through the intrusion. 

The grey was nearly encompassed by pupil. He blinked several times, attempting to focus. 

Hermione did not want to know what could rattle him quite so. Even as curiosity pricked at the back of her mind. 

“What can I do to get you to drink the water?” His voice was gruff, but the commanding tone stood. Trying to level the battlefield. 

Hermione’s head tilted. “What did you have to say about the other night?”

Malfoy’s jaw tightened. Hard enough that the vein at his temple pulsed. 

“If I tell you then you’ll drink the water?”

Her lips pulled up once more. “If what you have to say is convincing enough.” She sat back. “The girl is annoying. Probably not worth the trouble.”

“Am I not worth the trouble?”

Her heart stuttered. Brow furrowed. Lips pursed. 

“You don’t matter if  _ she  _ won’t let me near you.” She slid a knee closer, until it was grazing Malfoy’s thigh. His eyes squeezed shut at the contact. “I’ve only gotten to taste you twice.”

Malfoy swallowed audibly. Popped his eyes open as his hands curled tightly in his lap. 

“I only recall the once, unfortunately.”

Hermione’s lips curled. “Unfortunate, is it?”

He shifted until they were head on. When his eyes lifted to hers, sincerity bled through. 

“I wasn’t the one who stopped.”

Hermione had never seen that look before. Her stomach twisted the same way it had when she’d figured out she’d fucked Malfoy during his haze. 

She quickly realized she had no idea what kind of power the wolf held. Not over her. 

Not over Malfoy. 

Her hand cupped his face. He leant into it, cheek resting in her palm. 

“Would you have?” she whispered. “Stopped?” 

Malfoy’s breath was coming faster now. Hermione watched in panic as his chest rose and fell quicker by the second. As his eyes dilated nearly beyond recognition. 

“No,” he answered. 

She was struck by the honesty in it. The sincerity. 

“What about now?” the wolf cooed, leaning her head in until their faces were inches apart. Until Hermione could feel his breath fanning across her face. 

Until she could feel her own desire building blindly inside her. 

“Would you stop now?”

She leant in further, eyes falling shut. Their lips brushed lightly against each other. The sensation jolted down Hermione’s spine hard enough that she gasped. She was ready to give in, to throw in the towel. To wrap her arms around Malfoy’s neck and—

Two fingers touched her lips. Her eyes snapped open to find Malfoy looking down at her, pupils blown and gesturing to something in his hand. 

A glass of water. 

She huffed. 

“A kiss for a cup,” he offered. 

The wolf shook her head. Sat back with arms crossed over her chest. 

Malfoy leaned forward further. “A kiss for a sip?”

Her lips pursed, twisting to the side. “How big a sip?”

Malfoy placed the glass in her hands. “The bigger the sip, the better the kiss.”

She smirked, taking large gulps until the glass was nearly empty. Beside her, Malfoy’s unnaturally straight spine hunched a little. He breathed out a sigh. 

The glass set down on the table in front of her with a bang. The wolf was smiling triumphantly. 

“Will that suffice?” Innocence oozed from her tone. 

Malfoy smirked, eyes searching her face before he reached and brought a hand to her neck. 

“I’m glad we could work something out.”

She snaked a hand around his own and played with the hair at the nape of his neck. Hermione was loathe at the shiver that passed through her. It wasn’t just the wolf he was affecting. 

“I’d figure a man like yourself would try to back out now.”

Malfoy’s eyes were on her lips, staring unashamedly. “If this were Granger, then yes.” Their noses were touching. “But I know better than to mess with a beast.”

His mouth crashed against hers as if he was the one in control. He demanded more, tracing her lips until they fell open and licking at the seams even as he begged entrance. 

Hermione felt sick and twisted. Because she knew. 

The wolf wouldn’t lose control. The wolf wouldn’t  _ give up  _ control unless there was another plan in store. 

She barely moved as Malfoy’s kisses became more desperate. Deeper. Delving into her mouth. Licking at the roof of her mouth. Biting her bottom lip and pulling it towards her, until she was climbing into his lap and his arms wrapped tightly around her back, pinning her to his chest. 

Desperate like he was the one who’d just gone days without water and Hermione was the cold glass. 

Suddenly, Hermione felt herself give back with bruising pressure. Her previously stagnant hands travelled inside of his shirt and down his chest, smirking against his lips when he leant into the touch. 

She placed her core tightly against his lap and ground forward with all the force she could manage. Malfoy, too gone to realize he was losing, groaned into her mouth and thrust up into her. 

Once. 

Twice. 

He broke away, glaring down at the clothes between them as if they had done him a great displeasure. 

His hands were at her belt and working swiftly to tear it off when she grabbed his wrist to still him. He looked up at her, dazed and confused. 

“We agreed to a kiss, did we not?”

Malfoy blinked rapidly. Trying to tear himself from his cloud of lust. 

Hermione could not help but compare the look to those coming out of hypnotism. Guilt curled in her chest. So tight she thought she might choke on it. 

“A kiss…” He looked surprised to find her in his lap. “But I thought…”

She climbed off him and stood on steady feet. She turned towards the coffee table and bent down for the glass. Hermione could feel Malfoy ogling her ass. 

Honestly. She thought the wolf had more finesse. 

She turned back and drained the cup. Placed it in his hands before he could make any objections. 

“Our little girl here isn’t the only one that needs to be convinced and encouraged.” She eyed him suspiciously. “It was a neat little trick you tried to pull though. I think I’ll let her live this month. See what you come up with next time.” She walked towards the kitchen before Malfoy could respond. 

Hermione’s haze returned before the door swung close.    
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for more “werewolves were the original legillimens and that’s why they were able to communicate with their packs” nonsense in upcoming chapters.


	12. Ruthlessness

Hermione woke up after the full moon outside of the wards. 

The cabin was off in the distance. Even with her decreasing fine vision she saw it. A blip of wooden boards and smoke from where the chimney was releasing from the fireplace. 

The thought of heading in the opposite direction crossed her mind. Freedom spoke to her— and for a moment she was convinced that the best decision would be to defect. To disobey orders and find a way to bring Voldemort down herself. 

She made it four steps before rationale caught up. The smoke of the wood fire still lingered in her nose. 

The glimmer of a second set of wards shined several yards away. 

Hermione should have known better than to underestimate Lupin. 

She took the moment of frustration and irritation to examine herself. Twenty minutes had passed since she woke up and she’d yet to check for injuries. 

Her breath caught when she looked down. 

Long claw marks stretched from her navel all the way to her collarbone. The parts closer to her midsection were caked with dried flakes of blood. Closer to her chest was soaked in sticky, stomach clenching amounts of blood. It was a wonder she wasn’t passed out longer due to blood loss. 

The rest of her did not fare much better. Large paw shaped bruises littered her body. She limped heavily as she went off to find her wand. 

Remus did not give her clothes or a first aid kit this time. She was not skilled enough in healing spells to be able to do anything but more damage to the wound across her chest. 

It took her thirty minutes to close the distance between where she woke up and the cabin. Her clothes fanned out like ribbons hanging from a party banner around her, hardly covering anything. Still, she couldn’t find the will to take them off. 

Walking naked through the woods felt too close to an animal. She wasn’t quite ready to surrender what was remaining of her pride. 

Malfoy sat on the porch steps with a book in his hands. Upon her approach through the wards, his head snapped up and the book fell from his grip. She wondered if he’d been reading at all. 

He was at her side in a second, eyes wide like he hadn’t seen her like this a dozen times before. 

His hands were on her— ghosting across her midsection with such fragility and practice that she shivered. 

Healing magic oozed off him. He was muttering. So silent she couldn’t make it out past the roaring in her ears, but his lips moved in tandem with his hands and she could feel her wounds close with the practiced hand of a proper healer. 

“How’re you doing that?” There were a million questions she should be asking. Inquiring about his healing skills first seemed selfish, but she pushed the thought away as the curiosity became biting. 

He didn’t answer while his examination continued, healing everything down to the shallow cuts caused by stray tree branches. 

He stepped back, looking satisfied. 

“It’s a skill I picked up not long after you began hunting me.” He pulled out his wand and stitched her clothes back together.

Hermione clenched her fists. Felt the strain in her teeth as her jaw closed of its own will. 

“You mean dark magic.” That he’d just used on her. It felt like a stab to the gut.

Malfoy shrugged. Turned away and headed back to the stairs for his book with an air of nonchalance. 

“We’ve had this conversation before, yeah? No need to rehash old arguments.” He plopped down onto the porch. “Not when we’re both at such a disadvantage.”

Hermione was embarrassed with how long it took her to realize. To put the pieces together and shoot an accusing, suspicious finger at him. 

“Why aren’t you in your haze?”

Malfoy had the audacity to scoff. To roll his eyes like a dismissal. 

It wasn’t. She planted her feet firmly. Crossed her arms over her chest. 

He sighed, but conceded by closing his book without marking the page. 

“The wolf is in  _ your  _ head. You’ve just spent an entire night frolicking around the woods with it.” He gestured to the trees beyond the wards carelessly. “You couldn’t have had a conversation with her while you were out there?”

Hermione blinked. “Her?”

“Hm?”

His pulse sped up. She watched as it stuttered at his neck. Heard it, as if the wolf was trying to bring all her focus to it. 

“You called the wolf a her. I believe I’ve explicitly told you I’m not sure of the gender.”

“Oh.” His brow furrowed. She could see his tongue sucking on his front teeth. “Felt like a her to me, is all.”

“You’d know?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Don’t try and shame me, Granger. We both know the Slytherin blokes in my year were much better looking.” His eyes shot skyward as he muttered, “better in the bedroom, as well.”

Hermione was ashamed at the rush of blood under her skin at the comment. She expected more bigotry. For offense and insults at the comment. 

She was silent while the discovery digested. Eventually, she found her voice. Cleared her throat before speaking. 

“I don’t remember the full moons.”

“At all?”

She dropped her eyes to the ground. “I got a few flashes the other night, when Remus was over. But it seems you’ve interacted with— with  _ her  _ more than I have. So perhaps you could answer your own question.” Bitter jealousy washed up her throat. Coated her mouth like sucking on a hard candy.

He leant back on his hands and splayed his legs out in front of him. He had always been tall, but sitting there, she noticed his long legs for the first time. Drank in the sight as his eyes fall closed. 

The silence fell like a bludgeoning hammer. Like the words were a distraction from what was really happening. 

She felt the pull. The same one she’d been fighting since she first felt it all those weeks ago. It was stronger this time, but she expected that. Knew her emotions would come crashing down like an airplane driven through a storm. 

She just expected to be stronger than the urges. To have Malfoy on the same page. 

But the way he was sitting— he was basking in her attention, she realized. Soaking it up like a cat in sunlight. 

She thought back to Remus and their initial conversations about Malfoy. 

_ “The more you’re together, the easier it will all be. Werewolves are extremely territorial and clingy. Mates are a predisposed symptom of lycanthropy.” _

Easier, maybe. But it all felt more than that. 

“She’s got more control over our hazes than we ever thought.” Hermione squatted down next to him. Hoping he would open his eyelids so she could examine his pupils. “But you’ve already figured that out for yourself.”

Draco turned his head toward Hermione and opened his eyes. They were practically black. 

“ _ I  _ am being punished.” 

Hermione scoffed even as her heart thundered in her chest. “That sounds familiar.”

“Our punishments are not similar.”

Hermione shook her head. “I imagine she has cultivated them specifically to suit her exact needs.”

“And how does me being conscious help her, exactly?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “You already know.”

“I need to hear you say it.”

His tone was serious suddenly. And Hermione realized that her wolf’s plan was practically a masterpiece. Because—

“She’s taken away your lack of consciousness, but not your will to please me.” Hermione shook her head and stood, brushing her hands on her pants. “But she doesn’t realize it’s all the same. That you’re still being  _ altered  _ by me and the moon and that means I still won’t sleep with you.”

“I think she realizes that,” Draco argued. 

“Then why—“

“Animal instinct.” Draco came up behind her. She felt his breath against her neck. Suddenly she wished her hair was down, covering her shoulders and throat. “She thinks she’s stronger than you.”

“She’s not—“ 

_ But wasn’t she?  _

Hermione had no control over her haze. She wasn’t the one who had altered Draco’s. 

Had she not spent twenty minutes being healed by Malfoy because of the wounds inflicted  _ by  _ the wolf?

Things were starting to feel very, very hopeless. 

Hermione turned on him. “Are you fighting it?”

“Did I not run and heal you right away?” 

“That doesn’t mean you aren’t trying to fight. Maybe you’re just losing.”

“If that were the case, would I be able to tell you so?”

She didn’t respond because she wasn’t sure what the truth was. If there were some way to determine— to test it—

“Draco.”

His eyes snapped up to meet hers— riddled with confusion and disgust. More grey than black this time. “Granger, honestly.” His nose wrinkled. “That’s— Merlin,  _ no.” _

Hermione pursed her lips, circling him slowly. “You’re still in there, aren’t you?”

Malfoy shrugged. Didn't meet her state when she bent down to where they were planted on the ground. 

“You don’t mean to fight it.” The shock that ran through her at the realization quickly turned to electricity as his gaze roamed up her body. 

Once more, he shrugged. 

“I don’t know what to expect out of any of this.”

“She’s  _ manipulating  _ us—“

“To do what, exactly?” She turned around and he was in front of her, towering over her and feeling like the intimidating Death Eater she’d chased for blood. “To do the exact thing we’d been doing before you got yourself bit?”

Rage flared inside her like a lighter to gasoline. “You tried to kill me. Key word being tried.” She stepped back and began to pace, desperate to put some distance between them. Fighting the heat between her legs and the incessant pull. “And how messed up is that? That the person I’m supposed to be bound to for the rest of my life had intended to kill me.”

“You’ve been aiming for death practically since the day we met.”

“I wasn’t out there flinging unforgivable at you first year, Malfoy! You created that pattern of hate yourself.” She crossed her arms over her chest and turned so her back was to him. “And still, even then I thought there was good in you. I thought that—“ she inhaled, pausing. “I thought that for a lot longer than I probably should have.”

The silence between them stretched so thin she could have poked a hole through it with a needle.

“I told you there was nothing in me left to save.”

“I wasn’t trying to save you,” she snapped, irritation biting. “But I can’t kill you and now that we’re trapped here, no one else is going to get the chance.”

Behind her, the snow crunched as he shifted from foot to foot. 

“So, now what? Avoid me until you inevitably give in—“ Hermione’s jaw clenched, “—or try and find the good?”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She changed it into a firm line. “Are you good?” She lifted her eyes to his. His pupils were blown again. “Can you be?”

He took a step forward at the same time she forced herself back. 

“Show some self restraint.” 

“What am I restraining myself for, exactly?” 

Hermione crossed her hands over her chest. “You’re talking in circles.”

“And you’re refusing to answer the question.” He took another step towards her. Hermione didn’t move away this time. “Why are you so afraid of sex? You spent months weaponizing it. Strengthening it until it was as sharp as those bloody knives you carry around.”

Her heart pounded hard enough that she felt it pulsing in her skull. Control was slipping away like water through her fingers. 

“I’m not trying to kill you anymore.” She licked her lips. “It doesn’t make sense anymore.”

Malfoy stepped forward again. “That’s what you’ve convinced me of, isn’t it?”

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. “What— what are you saying?”

They were practically chest to chest now. Her fingers itched to reach out. To grab his arms. Feel the lithe muscles underneath. 

“I was so fucking annoyed at the situation in the beginning. It was easy for you to strengthen my will— to fan the flames and insist that sex would be the final nail in the coffin.”

He lifted a hand and cupped it around her chin. It didn’t feel comforting or sweet— it was threatening. A danger to everything she’d constructed. All the walls she put up. 

“But every day, it’s chipped away a little more. A glance at your ass when you’re doing dishes. Watching you run around the wards, trying to burn off the same building tension I feel inside myself. Knowing you’re in the room, just steps away from me. In a bed.” 

His hand moved up, fingertips grazing her jawline and temple as he knitted them through her hair. His eyes traveled along her face, dark and searching. Manipulating her in a way the  _ imperius  _ had never been able to. 

She couldn’t speak. Her tongue was glued to the roof of her mouth. Her senses burned with the fire he was stoking with every pass of his eyes over her. 

“And with the tearing down of what you’d created, I’d come to realize.”

It took a second too long for her to realize he was waiting for her to speak. 

“Realize what?” Her voice sounded low. Scratchy. 

“That it was all bull shit.” Her breath caught. His hand was on the back of her neck now, beckoning her forward until their chests  _ were  _ touching— scraping together almost painfully with every heaving breath that passed through her. 

Her resolve was crumbling. Images flashed through her mind, much as they had last time. 

Malfoy bending her over their rickety kitchen table, taking her from behind as if he were the king. It didn’t matter, didn’t bother her at all because she was in charge, had always been the one to call the shots, always in control and nothing had changed there.

She’d ride him until exhaustion hit, her hand wrapped around his throat and his eyes praising her like she was the only thing he could see. The only thing that mattered. Like she hung the fucking sun in the sky every morning just so he could look at her, love her like she deserved to be. 

Her hands were on him now, on his chest, making a slow descent down. Skating over his muscles. Her fingers wrapped around his belt loops. It was the last strand of sanity hanging on for dear life. Grounding her— reminding her that this  _ couldn’t  _ happen. 

“You have an animal inside you, whispering sweet nothings about me,” he whispered, and his eyes were positively possessed. “But it’s not my fault you can’t separate the two, can’t see that sex and soul bonds— they’re not the fucking same.”

It was a weak, twisted thought. And Hermione saw it for what it was— justification. 

“You’re playing with fire right now,” she warned. But her eyes were glued to his lips and her hold on his belt loops was dangerously loose, her fingers begging to travel lower. To search. To travel. To  _ grab.  _

“Granger, I don’t  _ fucking  _ care.”

And then his lips were on hers and there was no rationale left, not a single sensible thought left in her brain. It was pure instinct, the way one hand cupped his hard cock and the other snaked around his neck, holding him— because she thought if his lips left hers, she might not recover. Sanity might never be restored again. It might actually kill her. 

He tasted like cinnamon and coffee and Hermione could hardly stand it. She delved further in, biting and nipping and— and fucking  _ licking.  _ Gods, she’d never licked the inside of someone’s mouth before. Messy, wet snogs were one thing but this— this was positively  _ animal.  _

She felt a throbbing at her neck and wrists. It was painful, and without even thinking, she took one of Draco’s hands and placed it on one side of her throat, curling her fingers around his so that the pressure was perfect. Just— so good. Good enough that she had to break apart to moan. Her legs shook beneath her. 

Her hand dropped from his, eager to continue her exploration of his body. Her eyes popped open to find his dark stare on her, a question shining in them. 

He released his grip from her neck and rubbed delicate fingertips over the spot that ached incessantly without the contact. 

She shivered. Her legs squeezed together of their own accord. She wanted more. She wanted him to do it again. 

He placed his thumb at the center of the throb, watching her intently— like she was the cliffhanger on the telly and he was desperate to see the results. 

He rubbed his thumb in a circle— an achingly, torturously slow circle that had her knickers soaked. She couldn’t bite back the moan that spilled from her lips. Her grip around his neck tightened. 

“Fascinating,” he whispered, breath ghosting over her lips. 

She pushed him forward then, shoving him towards the house because as gone as she was, she knew that she didn’t want to fuck in the snow. 

They’d barely made it up the porch steps before she was shoved against the wall right by the front door. Malfoy’s lips returned to kiss her breathless. One hand cupped the aching spot on the opposite side of her neck and another moved to pop the button on her jeans open. Hermione broke away, panting. 

“Can’t,” she said, unsure where this bout of sense had come from. She was slowly floating back down to earth. Her mind was becoming clear, like sunlight breaking through the early morning fog. 

His thumb stroked the patch of skin right above her pants. She thrust into the touch, begging for more in spite of the words spilling from her mouth. 

“Need you,” he said, but his hands didn’t travel any further down. And, gods, his voice was rough and desperate and sincere enough to almost break her resolve. 

Because he did need her, didn’t he? She wasn’t the only one struggling with the ins and outs of a werewolf bond. 

She pulled away, to look at him and— he really did look like he was at the edge. Like he might lose it if they stopped right now. 

He was in his haze, for gods sake. She didn’t know exactly what that meant, what that consisted of for him but— she’d never seen him this gone before. With his ragged breathing and black eyes. Hands pawing at her, rubbing at the spot of her neck so expertly she swore she could come from just that. The way he was squirming against her, fighting to keep his hips still. 

They couldn’t have sex. Especially not after a full moon. But— that didn’t mean he had to suffer. 

She spun them around suddenly, slamming his back against the wall with enough force to rattle the boards behind them. 

Confusion shone in his eyes. His eyebrows drew together and his mouth popped open to poise a question. 

Hermione shook her head at him and reached down to open his trousers. She cupped him through his boxers and his head fell back against the cabin, eyes pinched shut. It almost looked like he was in immense pain. She’d seen it enough to know. 

She couldn’t explain what had taken over. She was overwhelmed with this senseless urge to— 

“I’ll take care of you.” 

She didn’t know where the words came from. But they fell from her lips without passing through her mind and they elicited delicious reactions from Malfoy. So she kept up the stream of thoughtless sentences as she worked him with her hand slowly. 

“That’s good, right? So good.” He bucked into her hand hard and Hermione tilted her head curiously. 

“That’s good, Malfoy,” she said again. He moaned, a hand coming up to cover his face. 

Something inside her stirred. She could watch him like this for hours. Days, probably. She didn’t want to just unravel him— she wanted to wreck him. 

“Good, Malfoy, yes. That’s so good.” It was a continuous stream of hot, breathy moans, ebbing and flowing and she could feel her own lust starting to come back, threatening to take over once more. She went in for the kill. 

“You’re doing so well, Malfoy. You’re so good for me.”

He pulled her in for a kiss then and it was blistering, hot enough to scold her skin and she felt his uncontrolled thrusts into her hand now, wild and erratic and completely undoing her self restraint. 

She pulled away and ran her tongue along his jawline, the taste of his skin like nothing she could have ever imagined. She’d spend ages thinking of words and phrases to describe the intoxicating, addicting quality of it. The smooth, soft skin and the musky, sweet flavor underneath it. 

She sucked on his pulse. Bit hard enough to hurt and laved at it afterwards. 

Malfoy was in shambles through the entirety of it. His hands traveled wildly over her body, unable to find a spot to settle on. They were in her hair, on the throbbing spots on her wrists and then her neck— like he instinctively knew. 

He came with a grunt, squeezing her neck so tightly thought there might be bruises when he pulled away. 

When he was finished, he collapsed in a heap on the floor. Leaning against the wall like it was the only thing keeping him up. His panted breaths filled the otherwise silent air. 

The day after the full moon had never been good. She’d always felt out of control. Grasping after logic and sensibilities that were just out of reach. Following the influx of emotions that flooded her when her haze disappeared. Always centered around Malfoy. 

She felt those same emotions now, too. But they were different. As she glanced down at him, with his head slouched to the side and his eyes shut as if he were falling asleep— she felt in control, for once. 

Because his haze was for  _ him.  _ Lupin had told her that it was to protect him. That she was dangerous and unpredictable and— and  _ vicious  _ after the full moon. 

She didn’t feel any of that. As she looked at Malfoy, the thought of hurting him— even accidentally— sent a pang of anxiety through her, so sharp her hands shook. 

It occurred to her that Lupin knew nothing about werewolf bonds outside of his own experiences. 

Hermione wondered if he was lying. Or perhaps two bonds couldn’t be compared. That felt more likely than the latter. Lupin would never set her up for failure like that. He would never plant seeds of fear if he wasn’t serious. 

He’d said that bonded mates were there to keep her grounded. To keep her alive. It wouldn’t be the same for every set of mates. 

She’d always loved too deeply. Gone too far for the people she cared for. A ruthlessness she was sometimes afraid of had manifested when she was very young. 

Turning Rita Skeeter into a beetle didn’t feel like crossing a line when she’d done so much wrong. Erasing her parent’s memories was right because they might have died otherwise. 

Going to war for Harry was never even a question. She’d done it without a second thought. She’d killed for him. Would continue to do so. 

But what, she thought, would she do when this fierce protectiveness suddenly extended to Draco Malfoy? What would she do when her mate’s happiness and safety was threatened? When instinct mixed with her own— already questionable —moral code?

Malfoy’s head leaned even more to the side and he looked in danger of toppling over. Hermione felt a surge of protectiveness shoot through her. 

She knelt on the ground by him, swinging one of his arms over her shoulder and pulling him to his feet. His eyes fluttered and he slurred out something she couldn’t understand. 

She hushed him, pulled him inside to the bedroom and laid him on the bed, throwing the blanket on top of him. He was back out, breathing deeply, within seconds. 

She wanted to leave the room. She hadn’t eaten. Should take a much needed shower. She could feel exhaustion pulsing through her own veins, and watching Malfoy sleep so peacefully wasn’t helping that. 

She should leave. Take to the couch if she wasn’t going to do either of the other things. 

But stepping away felt like ripping open a newly healed scab and she didn’t have the self restraint anymore. 

All this, without sex. He’d barely even touched her. She hadn’t even fucking come. 

And she wanted to feel guilty. His fucking haze was here and he was begging for her because of it. 

She threw herself on the floor next to the bed and leant against the wall. 

She fell asleep wondering why she didn’t fucking feel bad. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dramione fandom: Hermione is the one with a praise kink  
> Me: oh really?


	13. Turning Tables

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: this chapter has mentions of babies/infertility

Hermione woke to Malfoy shaking her. 

She jumped up, wand at his throat before she could properly process anything else. 

“Granger,” he whispered, brandishing his empty hands so she could see. 

The room was nearly dark, bathed in nothing but the dusk light. The sun was beneath the trees. It was difficult to make out anything until her eyes adjusted. 

Her head pounded. Her mouth and throat were painfully dry. 

She dropped her wand and stepped backwards. 

“Sorry,” she said, turning her head away. 

“Why were you on the floor?”

“Hm?” 

“The floor.” He jutted his chin to where she’d just been sleeping. “You were sitting on the floor, practically dead to the world.”

Hermione swallowed heavily. It burned. The adrenaline following the transformation had worn off. “Well you were in the bed.”

He tilted his head. “Why was I in the bed?”

His words were muffled in her head. The room was spinning. Her legs shook dangerously beneath her. 

“Granger?”

She tried to focus on his figure in the dark. She thought her vision was the worst directly following the full moon. “Yes?” she asked, trying to keep her voice light and careless. Using as few syllables as possible because talking felt like knives scraping down her esophagus. 

“The bed?”

She shook her head. “No, thank you. I— I think I should shower.”

He reached for his wand and suddenly the room was bright. Too bright. She flinched away from it, her head pounding in protest. Everything went completely black for a moment. 

A hand landed on her arm. Searing warmth stretched out from it. She hadn’t noticed she was cold.

“Granger, are you all right?”

“Quite,” she heard herself say. Did that sound as unconvincing as it felt?

The grip on her arm pulled her forward until she was chest to chest with Malfoy. He tipped her chin back until their eyes met. 

“You’re ghastly pale. You’re going to pass out any minute.”

“Shouldn’t you be in a haze or something?” The flare of irritation in her was unexpected and she couldn’t explain it. Why she wanted so desperately to pretend she like she wasn’t violently ill. 

He scoffed. Brought a hand to her forehead before lowering it and cupping her cheek. 

“I’m starting to think we don’t know anything about hazes or their consequences. You have a fever.”

“My body temperature is higher now.”

He rolled his eyes. Pushed her down to sit on the edge of the bed. “I attended the same Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons as you, Granger. I  _ still  _ think you’re running higher than normal.” 

She untangled herself from his arms, intending to stand but fighting a wave of nausea at the sudden movement. 

“Let me get you something to eat.” She could, quite literally,  _ feel  _ his concern. It twisted her stomach even more than the nausea had. 

“No, no. I’m fine, honestly.” The urge to take care of him was still there, gnawing at her sanity bit by bit. If he left the room right now, she wouldn’t be able to take the shame. 

“I’m not going to make you a five star meal,  _ Merlin.  _ Just let me grab you a bag of crisps.”

His footsteps retreated to the hall before she could say anything else. 

He returned with a glass of water and a half eaten bag of crisps. It brought a smile to Hermione’s face. 

“The last time you tried to give me water it nearly ended in disaster.”

He shrugged, coming to sit on the opposite side of the bed. “Let’s just hope you have more sense this time. Fuck,” he said, watching as she opened the bag with shaking hands. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

The crisps tasted like ash in her mouth. She grimaced, but kept chewing. “Probably should have had an energy bar or something earlier.”

His brows raised. “Is that the first thing you’ve had to eat?” He didn’t just sound shocked— he was mad. It brought some of her more familiar emotions back to the front. 

“Well I was a bit  _ held up _ when I first returned.” She shoved the bag aside and folded her arms over her chest. 

Malfoy’s brow furrowed. He seemed… confused. Panic seeped into her pores. 

“Please tell me you—“

“I remember.”

“Are you mad? I really tried not to cross any lines. I did.” But she’d gone further than she’d planned to. Maybe too far. 

To her surprise, a blush crept up his neck. Colored his cheeks a delicate shade of pink. 

Malfoy groaned, clearly frustrated. Hermione stared in wonder. 

“Occlumency doesn’t work during your haze, does it?”

Apparently not,” he answered through grit teeth. 

“We don’t have to talk about it. I can just leave.” Her head was still pounding and he probably had been onto something with the fever, but his discomfort sent an alarming amount of distress through her. Knowing she was the cause only doubled it. 

His hand landed on her thigh as she swung her legs over the edge. 

“That’s— that’s not what I want.” It tightened. Her heartbeat tripled. “You didn’t cross any lines.”

Her brow drew together, head tilted to the side as she ignored the burning heat of his palm. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” It felt like a dismissal. A definitive period at the end of a carefully structured sentence. 

But the pressure on her thigh didn’t let up, so she stayed put. 

The silence stretched, no longer awkward or uncomfortable. It spread like a warm blanket, wrapping around her securely. The pain was slowly leaving. As if being syphoned out by Malfoy’s presence. She found herself fighting to keep her eyes open, unready to sleep yet. 

“Was it nice to have the cabin to yourself last night?”

Beside her, Malfoy stiffened. Sat up ramrod straight with tense muscles. She turned to him, concerned. 

“It was— it was fine.”

This quiet— it spoke volumes. It suffocated. 

“What is it?”

The look on his face was painful to watch unfold. “I could hear you.”

She tilted her head. Turned so she was sitting sideways on the bed. Ignored the protests of her body. 

“Like the howls? I imagine it’s possible. I wasn’t given a huge range to traverse through.”

“No. Well yes, but that’s not what I meant.”

Hermione frowned. “Well then what did you mean?”

“In my head. I could— it’s like I could hear your stream of consciousness.”

Hermione shook her head slowly. “I have no consciousness during the full moon. I don’t remember anything, ever. Not even from last night.”

“I could hear you,” he insisted, pulling away from the headboard and turning towards her. “I could hear you, and it was agony.”

Hermione held her breath. 

“You were in agony the entire time.” His voice shook lightly and Hermione was reminded that he wasn’t able to put his Occlumency shields in place. “I don’t know how you survived so much pain.”

It made sense, suddenly. Waiting on the front porch for her to arrive. His quick approach and appraisal of her body. The willingness to heal her. 

She shrugged, aiming for nonchalance even though her heart was pounding. 

“It’s painful,” she said simply. She might not remember the nights, but the minutes leading up were excruciating. Waking up the day after continued to be one of the worst experiences she’s ever had. “But I don’t have wolfsbane. So I have to deal with it.”

Malfoy shifted next to her. Hands coming down to flatten against the sheets. “Why don’t you have wolfsbane?”

“I’m not sure if I’m giving away Order secrets if I tell you we have no skilled brewers or not.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Doesn’t matter either way. I’m stuck here with you. You could tell me the secret to taking down Potter and it would simply be torture. I’ve no way to communicate that information.”

Hermione snorted. “I’ll keep that in mind for when I’m feeling extra sadistic.” She stood, the icy wood floor against her feet causing her to flinch. “I should shower. These clothes are covered in blood.”

When she came back out, Malfoy was on the couch with a book in his hands, ignoring her as she walked to the kitchen to refill her cup of water. 

It almost felt like things were back to normal. 

Except she could feel his eyes on her as she returned to the bedroom. Could feel the hunger crawling up his spine as he stared at her damp hair and tight sleep shorts. Reminded her that his haze would last several days. 

It felt good. Hermione wanted to bathe in the sensation. 

Instead she closed the bedroom door with a finality. 

\---

The next morning, she woke before the sun to throbbing between her legs. Wet seeping down her inner thighs. 

Her mind was filled to the brim with violent, messy fucks. Claws scratching down Malfoy’s back. Teeth sucking at the juncture hard enough to draw blood. 

Malfoy begging for it. Malfoy worshipping her, filling her with his seed, filling her with future kids—

She bolted out of bed and ran for her dresser, throwing around her neatly folded clothes until a pair of running shorts and a sports bra made themselves seen. Her running shoes were thrown on as she rushed out the door. The moment her feet hit the snow, she was off, running as fast as she could. Until her throat was filled with knives and she could taste blood with each breath. Until her legs ached and couldn’t carry her any further. Until she was too tired to remember what images her mind had fed her that morning. 

The sun was high in the sky by the time she’d collapsed on the steps. Sweat rolled down her temples, off her chin and pooled on her chest. She leant back on her elbows and dropped her head backwards, pulling in air to her lungs like it might disappear. 

A cup of water appeared at her side with a quiet noise and Hermione jumped up to sitting with a gasp. 

“Just me,” Malfoy said, coming to sit next to her. His thigh grazed her knee and she pulled away to standing, grabbing the glass and sipping from it as she turned to face him, eyes glued on the sky. 

“Quite the run you just went on,” he said. 

Hermione nodded, gaze tracing the tree line. 

“Fast. Never seen anything that fast.”

She shrugged. “I’m fast now.”

“Like you were running from something.”

Hermione brushed past him, inside where she searched through the desk drawers until she found the tiny black journal and a quill. She flipped to a fresh page, wrote down the date and inked in all her thoughts from this morning. 

Malfoy read over her shoulder. It wasn’t preferable, not what she wanted but he should know, right? Open communication about these would make them easier to avoid. More likely to keep their heads on straight on days like these. 

His breath stuttered. Shock coming off him in waves. 

“That’s—“

“I cannot have children.” She exhaled, waiting for a reaction but Malfoy stood next to her stock still. “Prolonged torture will do that to women, apparently.”

The blood pulsing in her ears was the only sound she heard for several seconds. Eventually, a hand landed on her shoulder. She supposed it was his form of comfort. Maybe an apology. 

“I’m sorry,” she blurted, turning to face him. 

His brow drew together and his mouth fell open, disbelieving. “You’re apologizing to  _ me?” _

She nodded. “Yes. You’re stuck with me. If we manage to find a way to live civilly, if neither of us die during the war, I don’t think you’ll be able to take another partner. I don’t think the wolf would allow it.”

The grip on her shoulder tightened. He didn’t say anything. Just stood there, lips pressed together and concentrating harder than he ought to. 

“It might shock you to know I’ve not spent much time,  _ at all _ , fretting over a hypothetical heir.”

“It does shock me, actually. I’m surprised to hear your family hasn't already married you off to have the next Malfoy brats.”

He scoffed, and it was a sound so distant she’d nearly forgotten he could make it. When was the last time they’d exchanged nasty insults?

“We’re at war.”

Hermione shrugged, shaking his hand off. “All the more reason, then. You could be dead at any moment in your dangerous line of work.”

He didn’t offer condolences, or apologize back, even though it might have been polite. He’d been there; at least for the very first one. The one that probably mattered most, when it came to damage to the reproductive organs. 

But she didn’t want his pity. Or his children. No matter what her damn instincts tried to plant in her subconscious. 

She simply wanted to get through this day and onto the next. 

So she went to the kitchen and made herself a cup of coffee with mind numbingly stable hands because it wasn’t new and she’d never even  _ been  _ shocked in the first place. 

Malfoy watched on from the corner of her eye. Standing far away enough to give her space, but close enough that she knew he was keeping an eye out. 

“Are you waiting for a fucking breakdown or something?” she asked at lunch, fed up because she couldn’t  _ think straight  _ when he was this close after the full moon and she was still more animal than human. Still thinking about how much her body ached—  _ craved  _ his. Next to her, on top of her—  _ inside  _ of her. 

“I can’t fight the instinct that makes me need to be close to you right now. When you’re distressed.” 

“I’m not distressed.”

“I’m not talking about the fucking baby thing, Granger.”

She got up to wash her dish and cup and he followed, two steps behind. He’d been inching closer all day. Slowly making his way his way into her personal space. 

“Good. Please never refer to it as that ever again.”

“Why won't you let me help you?”

She placed the dish back into the cupboard, cup faced rim  _ down.  _ “If I needed help there’s a list of at least fifty people I’d turn to before you even crossed my mind.”

“I can feel it, you know.” He came up behind her, shutting the cupboard door. Trapping her. “Your need. I can feel it and it’s driving me  _ mad.” _

A hand came up to rest on her hip. She wanted to shake it off. No, that wasn’t right. 

She wanted to  _ want  _ to shake it off, at the very least. 

“It’s like your body is speaking to me.” His breath whispered against her ear, beckoning towards her. Begging her to lean in. Just an inch. What harm could a single inch do? Hardly anything at all, really. 

Malfoy’s other hand made a slow line up her spine, stopping at the top to press against the bone at the center before making a low, sensual descent back down. 

“What does it say?” She was playing with fire. Stoking the flames during a drought in the forest. She knew it. 

She knew it— and she was far past caring. 

“Tells me where it wants to be touched.” The hand that was stroking her spine slipped under her shirt. With light fingers, it skirted back up and landed over one shoulder blade. He dug a thumb into the inside of the sore muscles. “Like here.”

Her head fell back against his chest, hand still grappling to the countertop like a support beam. 

His other hand moved off her hip, slowly tracing up until he was fingering the seams of her pants. “Not here,” he whispered, voice rough and deep. “But deeper. Underneath. That’s where you want it most.”

Her eyes were shut but she could see in her mind his crazed look. Blown pupils and hungry gaze. It would be the same one he wore yesterday. 

She flipped them around until he was the one pushed against the countertop and they were flat against each other, from the chest down to the hips. The outline of his cock jutted against the seams of his pants and pressed against her own hip bone. 

The groan that came from his mouth could hardly be considered human. It blanked her mind— nearly left her defenseless and ready to do something stupid. Something that she felt her wolf must understand she wasn’t ready for. 

Because she wasn’t mindless and scared. No, she was in control. Aware of every action as she slowly slid her hips against Malfoy’s, drawing another one of those mind melting sounds from his throat as his eyes slowly glazed over. As pheromones filled the air and her neck and wrists began pulsing uncomfortably and she longed for Malfoy’s mouth at them— sucking and licking and—

She wanted to get lost. A very large, primal part of her wished she felt as animalistic as she had last time. Malfoy was here and willing and— and gods, she  _ wanted  _ more than she ever thought possible. But as long as she stayed aware, as long as she had her head on straight, she knew she couldn’t give more than this. 

It was worse, in a way. To be so aware of desires that suddenly had nothing to do with mates or lust being forced on her by some strange entity that had taken up residency in her mind. She’d spent so long convincing herself that Malfoy was a symptom, something to overcome or avoid or—  _ deal with.  _ Gods, how bad she wished she could just  _ cope  _ with the existence of werewolf mates with the same degree of maturity she had about her own bite. 

No tears had been shed over her disease. She’d hardly had the time to feel sorry for herself before throwing everything she had into research and revenge. 

And Merlin, that had been taken from her too, hadn’t it? Had been thrown back in her face hard enough to knock her backward, to throw her off long enough that she didn’t know how to find balance— not with the new weight and responsibility that had been placed on her shoulders. 

Malfoy was pawing at her now— nose nudging against the sensitive spots on her neck and hands bunching in her hair. He was wild and feral and free and she envied and hated and  _ wanted  _ him for it. 

Her hips pressed against his, sliding up and down slowly, painfully. Relishing in the way his breath stuttered and his fingers wrapped around her strands, pulling so her head lifted and he could bury himself in her neck. His tongue laved there, tasting hungrily. Like he hadn’t eaten for days. As if she were a five course meal set out in front of him. 

Her own desire built and she wondered if she couldn’t come from this— rutting against a kitchen counter, feeding off the lust and pleasured moans of the man in front of her. Who was so truly lost she wasn't sure he would come out the same person as before. The man that she’d hunted and wanted to kill. That had wanted her dead enough to force this curse on both of them. 

“ _ Draco, _ ” she breathed when his teeth came out to nip and pull. 

He keened under the attention, bringing his hands down to cup her bottom and pull her in tight. Rutting against her in earnest as she was held in place. 

“You like when I call you that, don’t you?” 

He didn’t answer, but his hands tightened and his breath hitched. 

His thrusts against her hip were becoming messier, less of a rhythm and more of a desperate cry. Hermione could feel her own orgasm building and she wanted to end it before. She couldn’t cope if she finished. It felt like the point of no return. 

“Come for me, Draco.” His shoulders tensed. “Be my good boy and come right here.”

A growl escaped from his throat and then he was sputtering, tongue sloppily laving and teeth clenching as his hips jerked into hers and she could feel warmth blossoming as his come soaked through his pants. 

Her wand was in her hand and she vanished the mess before he could untangle his legs from hers. She pulled back to see his eyes falling heavy like they had yesterday. 

Once more she found herself practically dragging him to the bedroom and tucking him in. 

She shut the door behind her, fighting tooth and nail against the urge to crawl into bed and lick and preen and cuddle. 

She walked towards the desk and pulled out the black book, not interested in writing down thoughts or symptoms this time. 

She titled the page carefully. 

_ Questions to ask the Wolf. _

She spent the next hour writing. Distracting herself from her worries. 

Because she thinks the wolf compromised with her this haze. Gave her control back where there hadn’t previously been. 

And for some reason she couldn’t place, a compromise for the wolf felt like a loss for her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heavy petting was just too funny a pun to pass up


End file.
